


The Aviation Accident, the Black Box, and the Co-Pilot

by ShittyDinner



Category: Villainous (Cartoon)
Genre: (sadistic tendencies), Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Black Hat's a real bastard, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, References to Drugs, Romantic Fluff, Smut, awkward virgin flug, cringeworthy awkward humour, eventual psychological horror, hope you like planes, lots of rambling about planes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:05:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 48,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShittyDinner/pseuds/ShittyDinner
Summary: A shitty economy leaves you desperate for a job. The only company hiring was probably not the safest choice. You might be the only sane person in this entire establishment. Well, your supervisor comes in a close second. Probably.





	1. Deal With the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note from the ShittyDinner writer trio before you get started with our fic!
> 
> Hi there!  
> We've started this before the main series is out so we reserve the right to retcon our own fic to adhere to the canon as the show comes out (which might lead to anything from minor to incredibly major changes)
> 
> Quick note: this fic's going to have a few [x other characters] moments but the main ship is still going to be with Flug.
> 
> This fic is gonna get PRETTY DARK at some points so we're going to add some trigger warnings at the beginning of the worse chapters. Please take the trigger warnings seriously.

Your last dime.

 

There are few things more annoyingly uncomfortable than persistent hunger. Job search. You're either overqualified or under-qualified-- encountering employers who are afraid of a high turnover rate or people expecting you to have more experience than you ever will.

 

There was one place in the next city that people seemed afraid of. They called it evil. Having crafted your CV to assume a persona that your potential new employers will find appealing (because, let's face it, we're all guilty of that), you take your most ambitious-sounding one yet and hop on the bus. Car? Ha! Who could afford that right now?

 

You don't care.

 

Something administrative. Something boring. Something gruelling. You're facing eviction and whatever they have will be fine. Everyone at the employment agency recommended avoiding this place. It's oddly sinister-- like a strange obelisk in this relatively residential neighbourhood. Wonder what they did to get around those zoning laws.

 

You ring the buzzer at the front gate.

 

...

 

No answer.

 

Okay?

 

Squeeze through the opening in the wrought iron gate and make your way up to the front entrance. Ring. Knock. Ring. Knock. Ring-- ah.

 

A tall, intimidatingly savage-looking woman dressed in alternative fashion opens the door. Yikes, what happened to her right eye? It's yellow. Wait, her left ear's all torn up. Did she get piercings ripped out? Was she attacked? Her expression tells you she isn't taking any shit, that's for sure.

 

"Hello," you begin, "I was heard there was a position for a--"

 

"I can't believe you've been out here for so long. It's been twenty minutes." She's sneering. Hey, wait! She knew the whole time and was just watched for her own amusement?

 

"Yes! I'm quite interested in the job listing. May I please speak to the hiring manager?"

 

" _You_ want to speak to Black Hat?" The name rolls off her tongue with complete devotion. Black Hat, huh? Is it an alias? Sounds like a good company culture already. Why did they recommend not coming here?

 

 

\--

 

 

Okay, this mansion gives you the creeps. The wallpaper, the furniture, the atmosphere, everything makes your hairs prickle and stand on end. This woman leading you has a dangerous air and almost inhuman demeanour. You awkwardly introduce yourself as you make your way through the eery house. She seems mildly uninterested as she reciprocates an introduction. Demencia. Interesting name. Is it an alias? Her attitude makes it sound like the intro was not even worth it. Are you that unlikely to get a position? Yikes. You make your way to an imposing door and she dips in.

 

Muffled squealing. Muffled grumbling.

 

The door opens and Demencia smirks.

 

"Good luck."

 

Gulp.

 

Enter what you discover to be a study.

 

The demon stands before you, sharply dressed in a three piece suit and silk hat. He stares at you from behind an ornate desk as though you are a parasite. Is the skull on it carved from ruby? Shit. Fancy. Umm.

 

"What business do you have coming to me, Black Hat, in person?" Terrifying inhuman skin tone. Flat, snakelike face. Razor-sharp, pointed teeth in an unnatural greenish tone. It's an actual monster. A bona fide demon.

 

Swallow hard at the agitated tone and gravelly voice. Don't let him see how much your hands are trembling.

 

A few things you know for sure:

 

This demon is powerful. You are not.

 

This demon probably has the power to destroy you and looks as though he is ready and willing to do it at any moment. You don't want to die at his hand.

 

 

You freeze.

 

 

"Why are you here, girl?" Black Hat barks at you, impatient.

 

You have a split second to think. Adrenaline kicks in.

 

"I would like to be of service to you."

 

"Of what use could you possibly be to me?" He's sneering with terrifying pointed teeth.

 

"I brought in my CV if you would--" You squeal when he incinerates the paper in your hand with nothing but a glare. Hahahaha what the fuck?

 

He's laughing at the reaction he's managed to elicit.

 

"Try again," he offers, amused.

 

"S-surely you can benefit from additional servitude! An army of minions? Why not go big, sir?" He's the one who put out a fucking ad for general help, what the heeeeck?

 

Ah, hang on. He seems to be abit of a narcissist. His sneer turned into a smirk at the "sir."

 

"Go on." At least now he looks apprehensive.

 

"There's an evil emanating from this place. Everyone talks about it but nobody knows what it is, exactly."

 

"Indeed. Nobody is usually brave enough to call." You seem to have piqued his interest at the very least. Good job!

 

Swallow hard. Try not to falter in front of him. This might be your chance.

 

"I want to work for you," you reiterate.

 

"Do you even know what we do here?"

 

"No."

 

"I'm an arms dealer of sorts," he boasts, "and a consultant. You want the _privilege_ of working for Black Hat?"

 

"You've charmed me," you bluff.

 

"I don't need to charm anyone. The last human I charmed became _annoyingly obsessed_ ," he growls, glancing at the door where you see a tuft of red hair disappear from sight. Demencia did sound highly fond of him.

 

"It's purely an admiration of power," you praise.

 

"You know nothing of power but you have a thirst in your eyes." He walks around his desk and pinches your face, angling it up and causing your lips to pucker. His grip is painfully strong and the supple leather of his gloves does nothing to mask how low his body temperature is. "What drives you?" His look is cold and calculating. Don't fuck this up.

 

"I've seen true hell."

 

His laugh starts with a bark and transitions to a maniacal, blood-curdling cackle. "Ohh child, you hadn't seen true hell until a moment ago."

 

"I acknowledge that-- Greed then," you offer, pausing for a moment... "and wrath." You might as well be honest about wanting money. And also fuck this economy for even driving you to this point.

 

"What do you seek?"

 

What does he want to hear?

 

"Power. Status. The honour of working for someone _as evil as yourself_."

 

Feel that pride as you manage to charm a terrifying demon. Count your blessings and give yourself a pat on the back.

 

"I've decided not to kill you," he declares.

 

"Well that's..." Don't say _good_ , "...considerate of you, sir."

 

"If I allow you to serve me, you will not be permitted to leave. The last thing I want is to have my secrets tortured out of my sorry excuse for a staff," he growls.

 

Wait. Room and board? Food? Clothing? The whole package? Not having to worry about rent? Or bills? Is he for real?

 

 

But you would sacrifice your freedom.

 

 

What's the alternative? Were you ever truly free? Laws, taxes, bills, work, social obligations.... The idea of working for an evil arms dealer-- a terrifying literal demon-- is starting to actually appeal to you out of more than desperation...

 

"I accept your offer then, sir! I choose to stay."

 

" _Choose?_ There was never a choice," he laughs. "You forfeited your freedom the second you set foot through my door, girl. The only thing I have granted you is your life. Demencia," he snaps.

 

"Yes."

 

"Escort our new staff home to get her things. What was your name again?" He poses the question in a tone that doesn't necessarily convey care for whatever answer you give; though you answer eagerly.

 

He smirks at your response.

 

"Make this worth my while. I do not appreciate disappointment."

 

Demencia takes you out using a different route, passing through a laboratory of sorts. You quickly eye some of the posters on the walls. Mostly schematics, blueprints, some notes and decorative inspiration posters.

 

Among them, you spot a friendly reminder handwritten on some yellow printer paper:

 

DON'T

TRY to

RUN,

BH.

 


	2. Welcome. Probably.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demencia is helping.

 

It's early evening when you get back to what you suppose is your new home. You and Demencia carry suitcases of your more important belongings up the long flight of stairs leading to the tall, imposing, monumental building. Why didn't she park in the garage? Nothing Demencia does seems to make sense. Driving with her at the wheel may or may not have taken ten years off your life. You're surprised you even made it back in one piece. After griping about not being sure if you're really evil enough to work for Black Hat Org. if you can't even deal with something as simple as her driving, she talked your ear off about all the work you're probably going to have to do-- some of which supposedly involves handling radioactive material or dusting literal otherworldly fanged books which may of may not snap ay your limbs. Did they hire you as cannon fodder? Oh boy.

 

Demencia walks you up the stairs and winds through the halls on one of the middle levels before stopping at a hallway with many evenly spaced doors.

 

"Pick a room," she offers.

 

"Any room?"

 

"Not the one down that way-- that one's taken," she notes. "Oh and neither of the ones directly next to mine," she adds.

 

It's not difficult to assume which door is hers upon closer inspection. The room furthest away from the other two occupants would make the three of you evenly spaced. You head over to a door and open it. It's... a little grim in its decor, much like the rest of the spine-tingling outfitting of this home, but otherwise... rather high-end with its own en-suite bathroom (score!) and a window that isn't even visible from the outside. Are the windows just one-way mirrors? That's cool and mildly terrifying.

 

"Are all the rooms the same?"

 

"Dunno!" She shrugs, making a silly expression.

 

"Is your room the same?"

 

"Oh no, it's much more evil and less boring--" She moves to an end table and kicks it over. "There, it's starting to look more like my room already."

 

"Ummm, that's alright, thank you!!" The last thing you want is for your ungodly demon boss to discover the furniture loaned to you in disrepair.

 

"I'll be sure to let Black Hat know that you're ready to be shown around. He might have me do it." She makes her way out, casually skewing a hanging mirror on her way without even so much as a glance. "Oh!" She stops suddenly and turns on her heel. "Teehee! I almost forgot!" That singsong is kind of cute. "Black Hat's the boss but," her voice suddenly drops dangerously, her tone like daggers, "I've got first dibs."

 

"Right! I am 100% not going there! Absolutely fine!"

 

It's amazing how quickly she can resume that singsong voice. "Good!" She waves on her way out.

 

You barely begin unpacking when she leans back in, sticking her tongue out and swaying back and forth haphazardly. "Helloooo again!" Oh dear, her voice sounds oddly conspiratorial. "Black Hat will be seeing you now." Why does she sound like she's teasing you? Should you be taking her seriously? Everything about her is suspicious.

 

"Right! Will do!" Abandoning your barely touched luggage, you make your way to the study, only getting lost once along the way. Knock on that door.

 

"What is it?"

 

"Black Hat, sir? Demencia sent me to see you."

 

"What? I told her to take you to Flug." He slams the door behind himself as after stepping out with a cross click of his heels. "Useless."

 

Wow, count your stars that you phrased it the way you did-- his impatient voice raises your hair and sends a shiver down your spine. The last place you want to be is on the receiving end of this guy's wrath.

 

You follow closely as he leads you down the stairs and in front of a door off to the side of the pristinespace.

 

"Do not touch anything you have not been instructed to touch. Do not look though any documents unless given explicit permission. Do not bother me with trivial matters. Have I made myself clear?"

 

"Crystal, sir."

 

"You're assigned to assist Dr. Flug then." His sneer is terrifying. You suppose that's the person from the third room.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Excellent." He further bares his sharp teeth, opens the door, and belts a terrifying, "Dr. Flug!"

 

"Y-yes sir!" A panic-stricken voice calls back. You can hear faint scuffling.

 

"Trainee! Fix her!" He bellows before violently grabbing you by the wrist and shoving you inside, causing you to stumble. "Make her useful or, at the very least, somewhat acceptably evil-looking!" He slams the door behind you.

 

Unlike the shiny, pristine factory(?) laboratory(?) atelier(?) you were just in, this room is dimly lit. There's a lanky figure who looks like they've just scrambled up from a drafting table with their arms crossed defensively over their head. Seems they flinched.

 

"Excuse me?" You call meekly, trying to assure them that you mean no harm.

 

The figure straightens up. Why the hell are they wearing a... paper bag over their head?"Oh. R-right. H-hello then." It's a nervous, high-pitched male voice. The paper bag's going to bother you forever. Terrible scars? Deformities?

 

"Hello."

 

"Newbie then?" It's not a question.

 

"Yes, sir."

 

He snorts.

 

"Doctor? Sorry."

 

"Alma mater? E-experience? Credentials?"

 

You answer the question.

 

"Harmless then. Finally," he sighs, slouching back into his chair. You can't see his expression under that weird bag but his voice sounds relieved. You finally introduce yourself.

 

"What about you?"

 

"Dr. Flugslys. I go by Dr. Flug."

 

"I could ask you the same questions you asked me."

 

"I guess I'm technically your supervisor now," he gloats, ignoring your prompt. Why does he sound so happy about that?

 

"Hello?"

 

"O-oh-- Well, I have post-grad degrees in mechanical and chemical engineering. My background's primarily in aeronautics and evil science..." he mumbles the rest, leaning forward and grabbing a pencil to resume his drawing.

 

"Something that would appeal to a demon like Black Hat perchance?"

 

"Bottom line is-- well, I've made some interesting things. Hope we can get along. Or I might have to dissect you."

 

"You're joking, right?"

 

He looks over and the light hits his goggles causing a glare. "Maybe."

 

"Mr. Black Hat said that you would be training me."

 

"I guess I'll have to then," he sighs, leaning backward in his chair with a squeak. "I have to get this done for tomorrow. We can start you then." He sounds exhausted.

 

"Alright. Is there somewhere I'm supposed to go in the meantime?"

 

"Kitchen's back out, up the stairs, and down the right hall on your left. Bottom left fridge drawer is off-limits. Laundry's in the last room on floor two and in the basement restroom. Don't ever go up to Black Hat's private quarters... or interrupt him in his study if he's with a client. _Never._ Interrupt him. When he's with. A client. The house could be on fire and you'll have to put it out in silence. A-anyway, the place is pretty big but you'll get used to it. You'll also have to ask the boss where you're going to be sleeping."

 

"Demencia's hooked me up."

 

"Ah. Has she destroyed your possessions yet?"

 

"N-no but she's kicked over an end table."

 

"I'd set boundaries early on if I were you." He's not even looking at you as he sketches whatever he's working on. "Go unpack or something. Once you've claimed a room, find some way to mark your door. The other rooms are for guests so they'll be off limits. Any questions?"

 

"Too many but I'm exhausted."

 

"You're expected to be in the main lab by 8."

 

"Right! Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow."

 

...

 

...Hello?

 

"Good night," you offer.

 

"Oh? Right. Um. Good... night?" He sounds so taken aback for a moment.

 

"See you tomorrow!" You wave cheerfully.

 

He shrinks down into his chair. "See... you."

 

An uncomfortable silence fills the air. Yup. Time to step out.

 

Man, you hope it isn't going to be that awkward every day. At least you can unpack your stuff. You get lost on your way back to your room but eventually find it. Were you the one who left your door ajar--? Oh. Yup. That's what he meant.

 

Your furniture's been rearranged and your belongings are strewn about. A sticky note sits on top of a pile on your bed.

 

I HELPED!

-DEM

 

 


	3. Grunt Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Black Hat doesn't keep people he doesn't need around so he'll either find something valuable for you to do or kill you."
> 
> Umm. What you're doing now isn't really _valuable_. Useful? Yes. Valuable? No.

Your first day on the job.

 

Cleaning out supply rooms like a maid. Hey, you're not complaining. You still can't believe you get room and board. Your shower turned into a long bath after cleaning up your belongings. It feels... kind of nice to have only taken the most important stuff-- the downgrade you've always needed while simultaneously getting the upgrade you've always needed. Grim wallpaper aside, your room is definitely going to be home. Your own room, your own bathroom, no rent. Wow.

 

That said, coming back to the task at hand, you realize that your new supervisor seemed to really enjoy giving you the dirtiest supply cupboard to clean. Without gloves. Or a dust mask.

 

You notice Black Hat walking down a hall gesticulating as he seems to be rehearsing something. Distracted, you knock over a push broom and it hits the ground with a loud clatter. Black Hat turns around looking displeased at the sight of you finishing your cleaning.

 

"Dr. Flug!" Somehow Black Hat's voice manages to carry through the entire mansion.

 

Skittering footsteps as Flug appears. You don't need to see his facial expression to see the worry.

 

"Y-yes, boss!"

 

Black Hat snatches a flinching Flug's shirt collar, lifting him off the ground.

 

"What the hell has she been doing all day?"

 

"I've been cleaning, sir," you offer, startled by the wrath in his glacial stare as he snaps his head in your direction, "t-to speed up production! I've been working hard!" You show him your hands, covered in nicks and dirt. "Look, this closet's spick and span--" you freeze under his gaze, voice cracking, "--s-sir." Gulp.

 

"Vile," he groans. "Filth." He approaches you and you feel yourself sinking low under his imposing presence. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle as he closes the gap between the two of you.

 

"Doctor!"

 

"Yes, boss!"

 

Black Hat inhales slowly, tenting his fingers and resting his flat would-be nose on them with an expression of reluctant patience. "Educate her by the end of the day so she will stop interrupting me or I will dispose of her corpse in your bedroom one piece at a time over a month."

 

"But boss, wh-what about the--?"

 

"This first, you imbecile."

 

"W-will do! Sorry, sir, I should have--" He flinches at the boss' glare, "I'll get right on it."

 

Black Hat holds his hands behind his back elegantly as he walks past you. "Do not interrupt me again."

 

You swallow as he turns the corner, disappearing from sight, and pick up the broom you knocked over so as to put it in the closet. There. Done.

 

"C-come with me, please." Flug hastily grabs your sleeve and is hastily leading you down the hall in seconds.

 

"Thank you."

 

"It's a bad idea to interrupt the chief."

 

"It was an accident! I knocked over a broom."

 

"I would recommend being extra careful when he's around." Was that a shudder?

 

"What happens if I don't?"

 

"He won't hesitate to kill his own staff." Yikes, that sounded grim.

 

"Over knocking a broom to the ground?"

 

"If he doesn't find you useful, yes." He leads you to the room where he seems to be in the process of refining his sketches into a proper technical drawing. You wonder what he's designing as he rifles through a pile of papers on top of a filing cabinet before handing you the stack. "Here. Sort these into the correct folders by file type. Invoices have their own drawer and are sorted by supplier. If you have any questions, you can pester me but please try not to. I have to get this done."

 

You get to work in silence, deciding that you like this side room more than the lab. Workshop. Whatever the big white room is. This place feels less open. Safer. There are more places to hide. Yikes, is that how your brain's going to work in this place?

 

It doesn't take you very long to finish filing the documents. You sit there awkwardly for a moment. The silence is thick. Your supervisor doesn't seem much for conversation, eventually getting up and leaving without a word. You glance over to the drafting table. Line work's not too shabby. You let out a sigh and wonder if this was really the best decision. Would the avoidance of being unemployed and homeless for perhaps a short period of time be worth actual mortal peril?

 

The smell of coffee fills the room when Flug gets back. He seems to be alright with sticking a straw up that paper bag of his. He peers at the lack of a pile in front of you.

 

"Finished?"

 

"Oh. Yes." It only took you about an hour to get through the entire pile and you didn't even need to ask for help.

 

"Alright. I suppose we can get you assembling things in the lab if you finish all the menial tasks. We have about three supply closets and several cabinets that need cleaning out and reorganizing. I suppose if you handled receiving, that would make things easier too. Most important rule's to not let anyone actually enter the building."

 

"Right."

 

"I can also teach you how we place orders. If you order anything using the company account you have to submit your invoices to me. Don't bother the boss for approval for materials under about 500. Avoid purchasing technology that's too complicated for him to understand-- which is anything more sophisticated than a typewriter to be honest."

 

"500 bucks. Noted."

 

"500K."

 

"What the hell?"

 

"And we try to minimize orders on uranium, plutonium, et cetera. They're a bitch to store."

 

Awkward laughter. "You're joking, right?"

 

He pauses to sip his coffee.

 

"Maybe." Isn't it easier to burn yourself when drinking hot liquids through a straw?

 

Awkward silence.

 

"It's not as though you're going to be running any projects though so you don't have to worry about it. You should only be placing orders for what you're told."

 

"Right. So I'll also be um, helping in the lab and stuff? Anything I need to know?"

 

"We'll get you some safety equipment. Here." He pulls out of a sheet of paper and draws a little illustration of himself. It's not too bad-looking. He then draws a few lines pointing toward different articles he's drawn on himself and starts filling in text as he lists things aloud. "Eye protection, smock or lab coat, appropriate gloves--usually nitrile is fine, respirator with appropriate cartridges if necessary," he just draws a line pointing to the paper bag he's drawn on himself instead of illustrating an actual gas mask, adding another line that just says "covered shoes-- steel toe caps if you're using a pallet jack." He adds a few more notes on everyday personal protective equipment and hands you the page. "Here. Tape this up in the lab as a reference. I'll let you know if you need something else depending on the job but this should be about right for everyday use."

 

"Thanks."

 

"We'll have to get you your own lab coats. You'd need to roll the sleeves up all the time if I lend you mine-- though one of the spares in the lab will have to so in the meantime. Try the gloves in there on and let me know how much smaller you'll need yours to be. I'll also need your shoe size for toe caps. Leave it all on a sticky note by the computer in the lab."

 

"Gotcha. That gives me something to do. Thanks."

 

"Please don't die within the week or something. Black Hat doesn't keep people he doesn't need around so he'll either find something valuable for you to do or kill you. It would be inconvenient if I had to order a bunch of stuff and then you died."

 

"O-okay? I'll do my best." No pressure.

 

Straw slurping sounds as he finishes his coffee. You can't tell if you're scared of this guy or not. The silence is either awkward or eery.

 

"Oh, and can you feed 5.0.5. for me? He hasn't eaten today."

 

"5.0.5.?"

 

"Big and blue. Bag of food's in the kitchen. He'll come running when he hears you pouring it. We _try_ to keep him on a kibble diet but he eats human food all the time because he's intelligent enough to figure out how to make it. Hope you don't have pet allergies. I've got some antihistamines if you do."

 

He waves you off, still paying attention to his screen when you acknowledge his information and excuse yourself.

 

Let's see. Tape the poster up? Check. Gloves. Let's see. There's a pair of yellow gloves on one of the workbenches in the lab. You try one on. Yeah, they're way too big on you. You'll let Flug know. Okay. Oh, there's a coat rack with a lab coat on it. Slip it on just in case. Yup. It fits terribly. The sleeves also need to be rolled up, as Flug predicted. He might be thin as hell but he's definitely taller. Okay. That's all he needed for now, right? You can feed the hellhound. Big and blue, huh? 5.0.5. sounds like an experiment code or number or whatever. Probably. You wonder if it'll have laser eyes as you find a big bag of kibble in one of the cupboards. Why does it need to be so big? How much does it eat? Where's the bowl...? Ah. That's a... large stainless steel dog bowl. Um. You scoop some kibble up and drop it into the dish with a clatter before adding some more to a crescendo of claws scraping on hardwood as something heavy-sounding obviously bounds toward the kitchen. An enormous blue mass skids to a halt and turn into the kitchen.

 

You drop the scoop and scream at the top of your lungs.

 

It's a fucking _bear_. These maniacs keep a fucking _bear_ as a _pet!_ You whimper and try to make a break for it but it's blocking the exit. This is where you die. Holy shit, it's coming close. You're a second away from peeing yourself. Drop to the ground and play dead. Not the most convincing acting considering how much you're hyperventilating. _AAAAHHHHH it's sniffing you._ Shit, you're going to-- wait. It's standing on its back legs and lifting your limp form off the ground and into a... hug? It's going to eat you. It's nuzzling your face and giving you a taste. It can stop tasting you now and just go to town. Get it over with.

 

The bear puts you back down and makes its way to the open pantry, shoving its face directly into the bag of kibble instead of the bowl.

 

Um. Can you run now? _Shit,_ it's knocked the whole thing over, spilling the contents everywhere and looking upset with itself. What's worse, this bear or Black Hat? Death might be swifter at the hands of Black Hat when he finds out you've left a mess. Run.


	4. Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay. 5.0.5. might be a... giant blue puppy.

 

 

You ran back to Flug after feeding 5.0.5. the other day and he freaking _laughed_ at you for being scared of a bear, which is a completely normal human reaction to a charging freaking _bear_. He could have warned you that it was a bear. He could have told you that he was a failed experiment and wouldn't hurt a fly. Stupid. Jerk. He just stared at you from his stupid whateverthefuck machine. And laughed. He really got a kick out of it. Honestly!

 

Grr.

 

You've been on... not so good terms with anyone, really. Demencia's broken into your bedroom and trashed the place twice now. You don't really know how to set those boundaries with her because she seems to completely ignore any kind of reasoning you've tried. Why bother? She's just going to create more chaos the more she sees it bother you. Probably. Everything from the way she acts to the way she dresses is completely wild. Everything about the boss, on the other hand, is extravagant. He struts about the place with an air of self-importance that's getting real old real quick. Although you've done your best to try to avoid him as much as possible, it's inevitable that you will cross paths at some point or another during the day. The building is large but, unfortunately for you, small enough that you can't go an entire day without having to talk to someone. That said, the isolation is making it harder to talk to people when you eventually do run into them. Maybe that's why your supervisor's so damn awkward. That doesn't excuse his weird sadistic mockery whenever you discover something new and terrifying about this place and go running for help. _Cool_. It's _cool_. You're _cool_. It's _okay_.

 

Nah, you're trying to convince yourself here.

 

Deep breath.

 

Okay.

 

You're done assembling this machine component you've been working on for the past couple of hours and need to run it by your supervisor. Once the coast is clear and the boss is nowhere to be seen, you make a mad dash for the other side of the lab, looking for Flug. Avoiding Black Hat has been something you've needed to get good at really quickly. Phew.

 

Oh. _Great._

 

The bear's hovering around Flug when you finally find him. _Fantastic_.

 

"Um," you begin, faltering.

 

"Hm?" Flug looks up.

 

"Can you please take a look at this? I think I did an okay job."

 

"Sure. Bring it here."

 

"Um..."

 

"Come on." He sounds confused as to why you're so hesitant to approach him when there's a 600+ kilogram bear next to him.

 

"I um. I don't really want to go near the bear."

 

"What, 5.0.5.?"

 

"Yeah, I'm not going near the bear."

 

"Give 5.0.5. a chance. Wouldn't hurt a fly." He turns around and gives the bear a scratch. It affectionately leans into his hand.

 

"I'm still mad at you for making me feed him. A freaking bear, honestly!"

 

"I wouldn't put you in a situation where you'd die within the first week." He looks like he's having a hard time not getting crushed as 5.0.5 leans into him. "If I wanted you to die, I would have told you to feed Lil' Jack." Flug's officially been flattened by the bear. It's sitting on him. "Oof," he groans, "Yeah, I'd stay away from the boss' snake if I were you. Nothing little about him."

 

"The boss has a snake?"

 

"Unfortunately."

 

"Noted. Anything else?"

 

"Most of the things in Black Hat's office are dangerous. Everything stored in the last three rooms down the west hall are volatile or dangerous as well. Steer clear." Flug's voice is strained as the bear continues to crush him in its attempt to snuggle.

 

"O-okay. But the bear won't maul me."

 

"Harmless. Likes belly rubs."

 

"Really?"

 

"Try it."

 

"I'm not sure."

 

"Please call him over. I can't breathe." He's officially buried under the bear, who's putting spots on his paper bag with his wet nose.

 

Pft. That's kind of cute. Okay. 5.0.5. might be a... giant blue puppy.

 

"Um... 5.0.5.," you hesitantly call.

 

The bear looks upexcitedly. How the hell does that open mouth look like a smile?

 

Oh gosh, here it comes. _Eeeeeeek_. It's waddling over on its hind legs. Is it normally... bipedal? Weird.

 

"H-hi there." You place your trembling hand in front of its nose so it can give you a sniff and it pulls you into a hug.

 

Oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh.

 

"Seems to like you," Flug remarks.

 

Okay, it's kind of soft. His fur is thick and warm and he has a lot of squishy fat.

 

"H-hey there, teddybear." You give him a tentative scratch, repeatedly gripping a handful of fur.

 

5.0.5. groans and flops onto his side, pulling you down before rolling onto his back.

 

"Someone wants a belly rub," Flug instructs. That's probably the first time you've ever heard his voice sound... sweet? He's normally cold and bitter.

 

"Right!" Just like an enormous dog, you suppose. 5.0.5. sneezes, huffs, and groans, rubbing his back on the tiles floor as you scratch it. "Okay, this is pretty neat."

 

"Harmless." Flug walks over and begins to inspect the machine part.

 

"You're a big puppy, aren't you, 5.0.5.?"

 

Soft groaning. It's practically a purr.

 

You officially have a pet bear and this rules.

 

"Okay. Okay. Back to work," Flug chides.

 

Aw, you were just getting comfortable.

 

"Did I do a good job?"

 

"Acceptable."

 

"Just acceptable?"

 

"Acceptable."

 

"C-can I ride 5.0.5.?"

 

"You'll have to ask him-- and do it after hours. Come on, you two."

 

"Fine. Fine." You give the bear a pat and get off. He looks at you with sad puppy eyes. "Oh, don't do this to me. I'll pet you later, okay?"

 

Bear noises.

 

Ahaha, this thing is adorable.


	5. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Hat finally pays some real attention to you.

You've managed to move up from mostly cleaning to only cleaning for about half the day as you've gradually proven your ability to do some of the simple assembly tasks around the place. You have no idea what you're putting together because they still don't trust you enough to tell you anything around here. At least you've been more or less left alone by the boss so far. Demencia's been nagging you to start 'being more evil,' whatever that means. If the boss hasn't complained then you should be fine, right?

 

Whatever, you'll work on being more evil. Maybe you can pull some legs off ants, commit some fraud, start small, build up. You can prove that you're evil. Heck, who knows, maybe you'll change and become properly evil. Fake it 'til you make it? Nah, fake it 'til you become it. You've got this. Evil? Ha! You can do evil. Maybe you can go and destroy something downtown, burn down a department store-- wait, no, that would do more good than evil. Wait, would it? Huh, maybe you're already evil. Who knows?

 

Whatever, you'll think about that later. What you should be doing is focusing on pinning this note to get more of the screws you need to the bulletin board. Come to think of it, you've never paid much attention to the bulletin board before. It's littered with various sticky notes.

 

You chuckle at one of the blue notes.

 

BH, PLEASE

LOVE ME

-DEM

 

Of course Demencia would post a note reminding Black Hat to love her. She's so ridiculous in a kind of endearing way. When she's not destroying everything for fun.

 

Your eyes move to a yellow note.

 

HELP

ME

 

Aw, that one's kind of sad. Why're you chuckling? Probably because you've felt the same way multiple times in the past couple of weeks. You wonder who did the doodles on some of these. It almost looks like the sticky note drawings were done by different artists.

 

One of the blue sticky notes reads GET PIZZA. The green one under it reads GET MORE PIZZA. Looking to the right, you notice the various meetings and deadlines on the calendar. A new plane for every month, hm? This month's is the B-2 Spirit. The fine print caption reads, "The Northrop Grumman B-2 Spirit is a heavy penetration strategic bomber capable of holding a crew of 2, deploying conventional and nuclear weapons, avoiding radar detection, and--"

 

"What are you doing?" Black Hat's voice catches you off guard and you squeal. Well, as much as you can with his hand crushing your windpipe as he pulls you backward, pinning you onto him.

 

"I was making sure I w-was up to date on my work, sir," you manage to choke out, pressed against him. It's a rather inconvenient time to become aware of how hard your boss' body is. "All the deadlines are posted here," you wheeze, "I was--"

 

"Stop babbling. Would it kill you to be concise?" He tightens his hand around your neck. Your vision is clouding in a mixture of tears and white spots and flailing is probably futile as he lifts you a few inches off the ground. "I told you to keep your ugly nose out of anything you weren't explicitly assigned to touch. _Certainly_ you remember that." His lips graze your ear as he speaks in a tone that could easily be mistaken for fondness.

 

Silent choked sobs as your chest heaves, desperate for oxygen.

 

"Well? Out with it," he barks. "Anything to say for yourself? Hmm?" His voice is practically singsong.

 

You can't pass enough air to make any kind of coherent sound. Your ears are ringing.

 

"I'm waiting," he chimes, increasing the pressure on your neck even more.

 

Strained gasping. Even if you could make a sound, you're too panicked to form a logical train of thought. How could you possibly justify yourself under these conditions? He's set you up to die. You're going to die. He's finally decided to kill you.

 

"No?"

 

"I-I sent her to verify a deadline, b-boss!" Oh sweet mercy, where did Flug even come from? You can hardly see through your tears.

 

You hit the ground and cough so hard you start heaving, not even paying attention to the conversation that ensues. You'll just lie here, barely conscious, knees and wrists in pain. Oh. The bear's sniffing you and anxiously nudging your side with his paws. Best bear. Hello soft bear. Goodnight soft bear.

 

 

\--

 

 

You wake up in your bed. Is it 5AM or PM? Ugh. Gross. You feel terrible. Haul your ass out of bed; don't bother making it. Head over to your bathroom to get some water. Maybe take something for your headache and possibly to dull the pain in your neck. There's some nasty bruising. A quick dip into the kitchen would be a good idea too.

 

A snack. Maybe you should feed 5.0.5. Dropping the kibble into the bowl with a loud clatter gets the bear running in. You sit on the floor with your back against his thigh and eat together and he finally finishes and gives you an enormous hug. Maybe you should just... sit here on the floor, snuggling with 5.0.5. as he curls up around you. Yeah, this is nice. It's okay to cry if nobody's here to judge, right? 5.0.5. isn't judging. What a good bear.

 

"How long do you intend to sit there for?" Flug's voice is cold as he poses the question. "Get off the floor."

 

Wipe your face. When did he get here?

 

"Sorry." You use 5.0.5. to help yourself up, giving him a scratch behind the ear as thanks. He groans in appreciation and rolls into a sitting position.

 

"You've been out all day and the parts you've assembled are all defective."

 

"They are?"

 

"You need to reinstall the proximity sensors. They weren't connected properly." He doesn't even look at you again as he heads toward the fridge to pull out some berries and ice. "You had step-by-step instructions." He washes the berries and tosses them into the blender. "I thought we had gone over the procedures. The first one you showed me was alright but you'll have to re-do the other fourteen." He's rifling through the pantry now, not having looked at you since telling you to get off the floor.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"Don't apologize; do better." He's scooping some oats and some sort of powder into the blender with more aggressive motions than you feel comfortable with. He's never been outright angry at you before. You shrink into the bear. "And don't let the boss catch you like that. You could have died. I thought you were more intelligent than that." He shoves a banana in, adds some water, and starts the blender. You sit there in silence and let the overwhelming sound fill the air. Maybe it's your headache, maybe it's the atmosphere, maybe it's both, but you're feeling completely overloaded and anxious right now.

 

Flug stops the blender and an uncomfortable silence fills the room as he pours his drink. 5.0.5. is still sitting on the floor, looking at the two of you. You, on the other hand, feel inclined to look at your feet.

 

This job fucking sucks. Your coworkers fucking suck.

 

"I'll do better," you mumble.

 

"And I'm not taking another bullet for you." He shoves a straw in the glass he's poured his smoothie into and starts cleaning up after himself, making more noise than he normally would.

 

"Do you want some help cleaning up?"

 

"I want you to do your job."

 

"I'll work late if you want me to-- as thanks for that." You've seen him work late to meet deadlines and suppose it's the company culture-- though you've never seen Demencia working into the night. Wait, when have you ever... seen Demencia actually working? Ugh, whatever.

 

"Pardon me?"

 

"For stopping the boss earlier. I should thank you."

 

He stops when he's doing and turns to face you.

 

 

Silence.

 

 

He's just staring at you.

 

Why's he staring at you?

 

It's starting to creep you out.

 

Stop staring.

 

Move.

 

Do _something_.

 

You take a step back and into the bear, who isn't even paying attention anymore.

 

"Take the night off," he orders, dismissing you.

 

"What? Why?"

 

"And do something about your neck." Great, now he sounds aggravated. What the hell did you do? "Wear a scarf or something. Those bruises are painful to look at." He's gone back to cleaning up after himself, ignoring your question.

 

"Are you sure you don't want me to finish the day?"

 

He grabs his drink and leaves, ignoring you.

 

You begin to follow him after a moment of standing there, stunned. When you turn into the hallway, you falter seeing Demencia leaning against the wall next to the kitchen door. She's picking her nose, humming absentmindedly, so you decide to ignore her and keep walking.

 

"He doesn't to know how to talk to people," she comments, flicking snot off her finger, "so you'll have to get used to that."


	6. Spat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not knowing how to talk to people isn't an excuse for being a jerk.

 

 

The day was fine-- it really was until Demencia decided to antagonize you for her own amusement. At least you didn't get blamed. Flug knows better and took your word for it when you told him why a third of the laboratory was littered with various screws. Of course, someone has to sort them. 5.0.5. tried helping but those giant claws of his were no use whatsoever. Whatever. Work is work. Sorting screws by size is no big deal.

 

Except for when Black Hat shows his face in the lab looking for Flug and spots you.

 

He bellows your name in a tone that sends shivers down your spine and makes your hairs stand on end. Rub your raised skin as you abruptly straighten yourself.

 

"Y-yes sir!" You stand up straight when he calls you, hoping that he will at least appreciate the respect.

 

"What is this?"

 

"Well sir, Demencia spilled all the screws on the floor this morning and it would hinder production so I wa--"

 

He kicks the tray you've been filling onto the floor, undoing hours of sorting.

 

" _This_ ," he seethes, "is what you're doing with your time?"

 

"I mean it's--" you falter for a moment, watching him tip the bin of unsorted screws onto the floor, doubling your work.

 

"Waste of time. Waste of space. Waste of oxygen."

 

"Please sir, I was just trying to--" Your sentence is cut off by your own scream as his flesh tears away revealing monstrous rows and rows of teeth in mouths hissing and spewing at you. His normal attractive scent replaced with a the vile reek of decay. An arm extends and grips your wrist too tightly, twisting it and burning.

 

Searing pain hits you and you stumble before he flings you onto the pile of screws, causing you to smack your jaw on the floor. You can feel one of your knees land on a screw head, pain shooting up from the contact on your kneecap. Your hands and wrists get the worst of it though your chin is bleeding quite a bit.

 

Black Hat tents his fingers and tilts his head backward ever so slightly, relishing your scream. It's as though all the work you had done so far were slacking-- you were finally being of some use to him. The cackle that escapes him sounds pleased by the sight of your tears. He turns on his heel and walks away, satisfied.

 

"Really," you call with a half-sob.

 

He turns quickly and fires something from his eyes, melting some screws inches from your dominant hand and smirking when you squeal and pull away.

 

" _Really_ ," he hoots, abandoning you in the mess. At least he's fucking entertained. Asshole.

 

You can hear Demencia's cackle from the opposite end of the lab. She's of no help. Pick yourself up and apply some pressure to your knee. Wow, that's unnecessarily painful. Screw threads and tips having caused all kinds of bleeding, you limp over to the room where Flug seems to be making a cleaner technical drawing of whatever he sketched last night.

 

"H-hey um," you pause, swallowing. You've done your best to regain your composure. "Can I bother you for a second, Doctor?"

 

He looks up from his work and sees you bordering on tears. 5.0.5., who is often lingering nearby, mimics his body language and looks at you.

 

"O-oh. Is that what that screaming was?"

 

"You heard and didn't do anything?"

 

"It's not-- Um, well it isn't out of the ordinary for there to be screams and clattering of sorts around--"

 

"Cool," you snap. Wow, he actually flinched and put his hands up defensively at that. "Just ignore when people--" you have to stop because you're ready to cry again. "Just-- Demencia watched and she--" you sob, at a loss for words. "Is Black Hat always like that?"

 

Flug watches you, unmoving, and you decide that you hate that stupid fucking paper bag. You can't see his expression. You can't tell what he's thinking or feeling. It's cold. Distant. At least the bear looks concerned.

 

"We have some disinfectant," he offers, "a-and some bandages for the cut on your face."

 

"I hurt my knee pretty badly," you grumble.

 

"Let's see it." He sounds exhausted.

 

You limp over and try to compose yourself as you pull the fabric above your knee. Most people would put gloves on in this case but he actually removes the thick nitrile ones he's wearing to check your skin; a gesture you appreciate since they're probably dirty.

 

"Not too much damage, at least--" he remarks, poking you. You wince and hear a crinkle of his bag. "--though that looks like you took a hit right to the patella here." Wait, did his voice get more cheerful just now?

 

You nod silently, wallowing in the thought of working for someone who isn't afraid to treat people serving him this way.

 

Flug palpates the injury site, looking for a fracture. You flinch from the pain.

 

"Ow, you're poking me too hard!"

 

"Hmmm?" Is that fucking relish in his voice?

 

_"Ow!"_

 

"We don't have a machine for radiographs." Poke.

 

Intake breath sharply.

 

Poke. "I have to make sure it's not broken." He's being too damn rough. "How else am I supposed to tell, hm?"

 

He seems to conclude that you'll be fine because he shrugs reaches into one of his pockets.

 

"W-would you like some painkillers?" He offers you a bottle and you're instantly wary. Why does he just carry those around with him? "And you'll want to ice it. Should be fine after a while," he consoles.

 

"Thanks," you grumble.

 

5.0.5. seems to be really good at detecting misery and remedying it with hugs. This is the absolute cosiest bear.

 

"How's the job going?" His tone is so neutral and it's bothering you that you still can't read the guy.

 

"Well the boss just decided to throw all my work back onto the floor so I'm going to have to restart.

 

"Unfortunate." He turns around to get back to his work. "You know where the first aid kit is."

 

"R-right."

 

"Did you need anything else?"

 

"Can I just... hug 5.0.5. for a bit?"

 

"A good source of emotional support, hm?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"No, wait, _now_ why are you crying?"

 

"S-sorry, I'm just overwhelmed. Every day's so hard! I can't do anything without someone getting mad or my work getting ruined." It's been a long fucking week and getting physically assaulted by your boss for just doing your job did nothing to benefit your mood.

 

"I'm sorry." His tone is distant. He isn't even looking at you.

 

"You don't sound very sorry," you grumble.

 

"What do you want me to do, tell you everything's going to be alright? I'm not here to entertain you with fiction," he mutters, going back to his work.

 

"Are you just always so damn unpleasant? Is that everyone's going to be like here?" You sniff noisily and wipe your eyes.

 

He stops working and swivels his chair to face you, crossing his legs as he looks down at you on the floor with the bear.

 

Silence as you compose yourself.

 

"And stop staring at me in silence like that! It's creepy."

 

More silence.

 

"Say something!"

 

"I have no idea what you were expecting." His tone is flat. "You came to work for the most notoriously villainous man in the world. What did you think you were getting yourself into, a happy work family and a good dental plan?"

 

"Okay, I get it but would it kill you to be a little empathetic?"

 

"There is far less empathy in this world than you would believe. Stop crying."

 

5.0.5.'s hug tightens as you seethe.

 

"Fuck you."

 

He recoils slightly. "E-excuse me?"

 

"Fuck you! You think it's okay to talk to people like that? I do my best every day to lighten the work you have to do and for what? For you to be a heartless prick when I'm already miserable. I hate this! I quit! I'm leaving!"

 

He chuckles and swivels his chair back. The chuckle turns into a coldhearted laugh.

 

"Why are you laughing?!"

 

"I can't wait to see what happens," he marvels. "This is so-- I can't believe you're-- You actually-- You're so _fascinating_."

 

"Stop laughing at me!"

 

"It's going to be spectacular. By all means, go." He's giddy with excitement.

 

"I will!" You give 5.0.5. a pat, get up off the floor. Fuck this.

 

"No, wait, y-you're not bluffing? Wait! Don't--!" You slam the door behind you, cutting him off.

 

You're not even going to bring everything; just the essentials. Fuck. This.

 

 _Bye_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Deuces_


	7. Property

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Should I break both your legs? Wouldn't that be fun?"

 

 

Bag: Packed.

 

Bird: Flipped.

 

Door: Slammed.

 

You're Completely Done with this place. Bye forever. You reach for the gate.

 

In the blink of an eye you're swiftly pulled backward by a long tendril wrapped around your ankle. It causes you to hit your already hurt jaw, and _drags_ up the stone steps, one at a time, injuring and scraping your knees, your elbows, and your wrists. Another wraps around your wrist, lifting your battered body.

 

You're faced with Black Hat and his expression of disappointment and what seems to be surprise.

 

"I cannot believe you would even try that."

 

"Don't touch me!" Your scream is so shrill that it practically tears through your fear-tightened throat.

 

"Idiot girl, I own you. I'll do as I please."

 

"No you don't! And you won't!" There's nothing assertive about your panic-stricken shrieking as your entire body trembles with its surge of adrenaline.

 

"You think you're free to waltz into my manor, spy on me, and leave?"

 

"Let _go_ of me!" You sink your teeth into the tendril wrapped around your wrist.

 

He doesn't even flinch.

 

"So audacious," he mewls, taunting. "You have so much potential to be of actual use to me." That's the first time you've ever heard him sound pleased. The way he scratches the underside of your already painfully scraped chin raises all the hairs on your neck and arms.

 

_"No!"_

 

"Should I break both your legs? Wouldn't that be fun?"

 

His cackle is dreadfully shrill and maniacal, chilling you to the bone. Fear finally overtakes anger at the realization that he's perfectly capable and willing.

 

"No!! Don't!"

 

His tone shifts to a bored one. "Beg for your life then. Go on."

 

"Wh-what?"

 

"Tsk. Tsk. That's not good enough. One at a time, I suppose?" He reaches for your pinky finger, taking it between two of his, and _snaps_ it.

 

Pain. Searing pain shoots though you and you release a harsh yelp through your sobs. This is hell. The devil himself is going to torture you until you plead.

 

"Go on. Beg." Black Hat is sounding no less bored as you howl, too overwhelmed to even comply. "No?"

 

"P-please! _Stop_ ," you wail. "Let me go!"

 

"Is that all then? The damage was incredibly minor," he mocks. "I thought you could endure more." _Snap_. "I _do_ hope this isn't your dominant hand. Wouldn't want production slowed down too significantly."

 

As though the rest of your body didn't hurt enough.

 

"Please! I'm begging! _I'm begging!"_

 

"Are you now?" How does he manage to sound so fucking _bored_ when you're flailing this much?

 

"Y-yes! Please! I won't leave!"

 

"Obviously, stupid girl. Leaving was never an option. I told you to beg for your life. Have you forgotten?" _Snap._ "That one was for being an absolute idiot. I've had dull-witted staff but never this inattentive."

 

Your throat hurts almost as much as your hand does from screaming yourself hoarse.

 

"I'm sorry," you plead. "Please, I'll do better! I'll be more evil!"

 

"You've wasted so much of my time today," he comments with a grimace. "I'm not sure I want to risk losing more." The mockery in his voice is beyond insulting. Having avoided him like the plague as you've worked here, you've never quite had the opportunity to take in how unnatural his facial expressions really are. Everything is so exaggerated, uncanny, repulsive. Where is his nose? Where are his ears?

 

"What do you _want?!"_

 

"Loyalty, compliance, and servitude. All I'm quite sure you're capable of but refuse to demonstrate. Why?"

 

All you can do is sob. You're so exhausted. What did you do to deserve this?

 

"So reluctant to comply. You are somehow the most plain and replaceable person I've hired to date. You have no real talent yet you're here. Do you know why I haven't used you as cannon fodder?"

 

"N-no, sir!"

 

He backs inside, pulling you into the manor with a slam of the front door behind you, trailing you along as he walks in his stupid elegant stride.

 

"You see, most villains would make the mistake of hiring someone they don't know. They keep them around simply out of pride-- without providing a reason, of course. It makes them sound more mysterious and brooding. This is an amateur mistake. The fact is that they have no reason. They take the unnecessary risk and keep the new hire to avoid sacrificing their pride when unable to provide any sort of valid justification, even to themselves," he monologues.

 

All you can do is try to keep up and tearfully try to manage the overwhelming pain in your hand as he walks you back to the lab.

 

"Of course, being the best at what I do, I can do that. _What makes me so different now?_ An excellent question. You see, when I do it, I don't incur any risk. There is no possible means for you to escape nor hurt me. You are weak and pitiful. _Ah, but what do I have to gain?_ You, obtuse and naïve girl, are quite useful _because_ of how plain and useless you are."

 

You can't even respond, overwhelmed, in pain, and confused. You're too preoccupied with the fact that you need medical attention to follow.

 

"Of course you don't get it, witless as you are. I sell devices to villains all over the world. You know _this_ at the very least." You catch his eye roll; too exaggerated to be human. "They aspire to be like me: powerful, successful, charismatic. They could never even come close, of course, but one has to admire their ambitions, hm? The everyman, the lowlife villain transformed as if by _magic_." He snaps his fingers, emitting a sulphuric-smelling flame that compresses itself into skull-shaped a puff of smoke. "The problem lies _in_ my victories and affluence. I can do anything and it will be successful. The customers see me demonstrating the use of a device and know it will work. I'm Black Hat. I can make anything work. They need to see themselves."

 

"So you need me to be in your ads," you conclude.

 

"It's almost as though you're not a complete buffoon after all," he sneers, finally releasing you once you're in the lab.

 

He walks up to the intercom and pages Flug, who comes skittering in from the same entrance you did; doing his best to avoid the screws that are still all over the floor.

 

"Y-you called, boss?"

 

"You," growls Black Hat, "are incapable of doing your job, Doctor."

 

"I'm sorry-- It didn't seem like-- I mean it's not-- I didn't thinks she'd actually leave!"

 

Black Hat lifts Flug up by the throat. "Do you think I enjoy doing dirty work around here because you're too incompetent to babysit this idiot?"

 

Gasping and sputtering.

 

You sink to the ground, making yourself as small as possible as the boss practically strangles Flug.

 

"I didn't think so." He thrusts Flug backward and he stumbles, falling on his rear with a squeal.

 

"I-I'm sorry, boss! I-It won't happen again! I-I didn't think she'd actually-- I couldn't stop--"

 

"Yes you could have stopped her but you didn't and now I risk being late for an appointment because I had to personally rectify the situation. I have standards to maintain, you know. Make sure this doesn't happen again or your bones are the ones getting broken next time."

 

"I-I'm on it, sir," he gulps.

 

"Additionally," he barks, stopping at the door and turning his head unnaturally, "you're a doctor. Do something to fix her hand. It's broken."

 

"W-with all due respect, boss, I'm a research engineer-- not an MD. I can splint her at best."

 

"Then put a tracker on her and drive her to a hospital," he dismisses, aggravated.

 

The door to the lab slams and you cower in the corner as Flug looks in your direction, rubbing the reddening and obviously tender part of his neck.

 

"Colour me impressed," he marvels, dumbfounded. "Y-you actually tried to leave..."

 

You cower as he approaches you, wishing 5.0.5. was here.

 

"Come on. Get up," he coaxes. "Let's see your hand."

 

You lift your already swollen hand and he recoils, gasping in revulsion and secondhand pain, turning away to breathe deeply.

 

"Ooooh my goodness that is so nasty," he croaks, now on a mission to completely avoid looking at your crooked fingers.

 

You sob.

 

" _Please_ tell me that's not your dominant hand." He's still cringing.

 

"It isn't," you rasp, hoarse from screaming and crying.

 

Halfway between a shudder and a sigh, he helps you up off the floor. After rummaging in his lab coat pocket for a second he pulls out a pill bottle, looks at it, dissatisfied, and shoves it back in. "I'll be right back. Please wait by the garage."

 

You grumble, limp over to wait by the garage, and wipe your face. Everything hurts. You're covered in scrapes, your fingers look like something out of a horror film. You're battered, bruised, and dehydrated, eyes are throbbing, lips on the verge of cracking. What you would give to not be on this plane of existence...

 

Flug meets you within a couple of minutes, having shed his gloves and replaced his lab coat with a jacket. He holds up a metal anklet that's slimmer and sleeker but not unlike Demencia's among the various items he's brought. "You'll be needing this."

 

You grumble as he clasps it to you and at least makes sure it's not on too tightly. He then presses a bottle of pills into the palm of your good hand and wraps your fingers around it. "Um, p-please be careful with these. They're strong and I don't like pulling out the big painkillers for nothing. J-just take one."

 

You have a hard time dry-swallowing but manage as he readies what looks like a makeshift splint and some gauze.

 

"Give me your hand, please."

 

You whine.

 

"Come on."

 

"It hurts enough without your rough prodding!"

 

"Your fingers need splinting. It's going to hurt when I realign the joints but it can't be much worse than what you're already feeling so would you please cooperate?"

 

It's definitely worse than what you were already feeling. Flug recoils when you shriek and howl as he tries to position your fingers. It takes him a moment to compose himself and he immobilizes them. As much as he tries to pacify you, it's like having them broken all over again so it's nearly impossible to contain your wailing. Your hand might as well be on fire and the ice pack he gives you isn't helping at all. At least it'll probably go numb enough with swelling that you can't feel it soon.

 

You enter the garage and climb into the passenger seat of one of the cars.

 

"I um--" Flug begins before cutting himself off and sitting in silence after he starts the car.

 

You don't look at him.

 

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

 

You just want to pull your knees up to your face but can't in the passenger seat. Everything's sore. It's a miracle you're even able to keep crying.

 

At least this apology actually sounds sincere.

 

"We'll get you cleaned up," he offers.

 

You're not in the mood nor do you have the energy to respond as he pulls out and drives for a while.

 

"A-and when we get back--" the break in the silence startles you slightly, "--you can go to sleep for the rest of the day--"

 

Silence.

 

"--i-if you want to, that is." The longer the drive, the more awkward he gets. You wish he'd just shut up. You're too tired for this.

 

Your throat hurts too much to talk now anyway.

 

"And we can stop t-to pick up a snack on the way there-- or on the way back-- a-as you wish." It's been several intersections and he keeps trying to make conversation despite becoming increasingly flustered.

 

You just want to not have to feel your hand anymore. When the hell are the painkillers he gave you going to kick in?

 

"Please say something," he implores. You notice his grip on the steering wheel looks almost painfully tight.

 

No.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't google broken fingers. Take our word for it, they made Flug flinch for a reason.


	8. Blasted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5.0.5. is more trouble than he's worth sometimes.

 

Four to six weeks.

 

They stuck pins through your bones to hold them in place _and left them sticking out of your damn skin_.

 

What's weird was how terrified the staff was of Flug the whole time you were in the hospital. You didn't even go through triage-- just walked in like you owned the place.

 

It took you a full three days to come out of your room and you're surprised that you were left to your own devices. 5.0.5. kept bringing you food that you're pretty sure a bear wouldn't be able to cook, which is nice. This bear is the best thing that's happened to you since getting here.

 

You finally decided to come down to the lab this morning but you're oddly intimated by a self-portrait of Black Hat on a poster-sized sheet. It's been there since you've started working here but you've never really taken how much Black Hat stares down at you menacingly from the paper into consideration until today.

 

The caption reads

 

BACK TO WORK

 

You could have sworn you've seen they eyes move today. Fuck you, poster. You'd flip it the bird if you didn't have the sneaking suspicion it would land you with more broken fingers.

 

Neither you nor Flug really looked directly at one another when you returned. You just quietly asked for an assignment and were put to work. This is fine. You glance in his general direction as he works on a circuit board and wish 5.0.5. would hover around your workstation instead of his. Flug keeps giving him an occasional pet and you feel a pang of jealousy. Come here, 5.0.5.

 

Whatever. A few more hours of silent working with occasional bear sounds filling the room isn't so bad. Meal breaks always keep your morale up and your job really doesn't suck when you don't have to deal with people. Demencia hasn't even bothered you today--

 

"5.0.5., _no--!"_ An almost deafening explosion cuts Flug off and you fall off your chair as you try to take cover from the blast that seems to have come out of nowhere.

 

You look up to see an enormous portion of the lab blackened. Whatever 5.0.5. just bit into is on the floor and smoking. Evident teeth marks are visible from across the lab despite the dissipating smoke.

 

“Oooh! How many times do I have to tell you?!” Flug’s scolding sounds more exasperated than aggressive. He’s gripping his forearm as he proceeds to tell the bear off.

 

Oh great.

 

Duck back under your desk as Black Hat enters the lab looking unamused.

 

You peek out to witness him yelling at a whimpering Flug, who dared insist that he stop tormenting 5.0.5. when he did. Try not to cry as you hide under your desk as soon as he turns his head. He’ll go away when he’s had his fill of torturing his staff. Of course he knows you’re here. Of course he’d slide his arm under the desk and up the back of your neck on his way out.

 

You emerge gripping your neck where his gloved hand grazed you. Well, that could have been much worse. For you anyway. You catch a glimpse of Flug who’s shed his lab coat and grabbed the first aid kit.

 

“Are you okay?” Your voice is shaky when you try to speak.

 

"I’ll be fine. It’s just a scratch.” Just a scratch? He has an enormous gash on his forearm. Whatever debris hit him tore through both his coat sleeve and glove. “Can you hold this for a second? It's hard to do one-handed." He motions for you to give him a hand with the gauze he’s trying to fasten to himself.

 

"You're telling me. I’ve been one-handed all day." You hold the knot he's tying down with one of your good fingers. "Are you sure you’re going to be alright?"

 

"I've had worse. Nice move ducking for cover. You'll learn that you'll live a lot longer if you can avoid the boss when he's mad at 5.0.5."

 

"Thanks for the advice."

 

He finishes tightening his dressing and sighs. It's quiet for a while though the silence feels less heavy than usual. Maybe it's because of how exhausted Flug seems.

 

"You're welcome." He turns around and grumbles when the bandage he tied immediately falls off. He's surprisingly incompetent.

 

"You want me to just do that for you?" You motion to his not-so-wrapped wrap.

 

He grumbles and tries again before giving up, extending his arm. He mumbles something.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“I said thank you.”

 

“You can assemble intricate machine parts but can’t tighten a bandage,” you chuckle, wrapping the gauze around his slender arm.

 

He shrinks at the comment, looking like he’d almost rather pull his arm away.

 

“There you go, Doctor.” You finish dressing the wound as best you can with broken fingers and pull away.

 

He mumbles some more thanks and proceeds to look for something on his workbench and then on the floor.

 

“Have you seen the circuit board I was working on?” He sounds more frustrated than anything but there’s definitely some anxiety in his tone.

 

“No? Not since you were working on it before, anyway.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“I was hiding under the desk, remember?”

 

He proceeds to dismiss you and continue frantically looking in the same spots over and over before opening 5.0.5.’s mouth and even checking there in desperation.

 

"What do you think could have happened to the circuit board?” you ask.

 

"Anything. Demencia could have hidden it-- she can appear and disappear quite quickly. 5.0.5. could have eaten it-- that's happened on many occasions. It could have been vaporized in the explosion though I doubt it. Things go missing every once in awhile."

 

"This is a common occurrence but the boss is still a jerk about it?"

 

"Time is money but he uses that as an excuse. He enjoys any reason to antagonize us." He looks at the clock. "Speaking of time, it's 8. You're done. You can retire if you want."

 

Sometimes working these twelve hour days doesn't even feel that long anymore. Maybe you're just used to it.

 

"Are you going to stay up?"

 

"I tend to. I'm not paid overtime but if I can find the piece it'll save me hours of work."

 

"Do you want some help?"

 

"I need to to be well-rested in the morning. If you make a stupid mistake due to stress or exhaustion, the boss'll be more harsh than if I do." He pauses for a second, looks like he’s about to say something, and stops himself.

 

“What?”

 

“I should stay up to look for that piece…”

 

“What do you even do in your free time?”

 

“Dunno. Depends,” he muses. “Take a bath, read a book, run a flight simulator on the side.”

 

“I’m going to feed 5.0.5. and come back to check on you,” you offer.

 

He grumbles a tone you’re beginning to recognise as his gratitude grumble and proceeds to go back to cleaning up the lab and searching for the circuit board among the debris. You vaguely wonder if he can program one of the robots to do that for him. How efficient are the hatbots anyway?

 

Whatever. You make your way up to the kitchen and wait for 5.0.5. to bound up the stairs after you pour his kibble. It’s nice to sit with him and have a bit of ice cream despite the fact that he seems to always prefer to try to grab your food.

 

“Dry food’s not that good, hm?”

 

Bear noises as he sniffs your food, getting his nose in it and licking it. 

 

“You want this ice cream?” you chuckle. 

 

Excited bear noises as you extend your arm. It's covered in bear nose wetness anyway.

 

“Alright, alright. Here you go.” You hand 5.0.5. your food and head off to bed.

 


	9. Takeoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He pauses for a moment.
> 
> "Do you... like planes?"

You make your way down to the lab and resume what you were working on yesterday. The routine you’re accustomed to has been the same since you’ve started working here though that doesn't account for whatever added chaos Black Hat or Demencia decides to inflict every now and then.

 

You find the lab empty this morning. Normally you’re met with Flug anxiously fretting over whatever he’s left for the morning over a cup of coffee as you enter the lab. He was probably up late. Huh. You have a job to finish though. A little bit of setting up and you’re assembling pieces. It’s fairly straightforward; just screw some slotted pieces together.

 

An hour goes by and you turn your head over to Flug’s workbench when you hear some grumbling. He’s climbing up from underneath it looking fairly dishevelled.

 

“Good morning Doctor.” It’s a little hard not to giggle at his crumpled paper bag but at the same time you’re pretty concerned. Did he sleep under the desk? Did he collapse or something? “A-are you alright?”

 

“Wh-what time is it?” He looks over, panicked, before glancing at the clock on the wall and emitting a croak.

 

“Can I help you with something?”

 

“Nono I’m going to take a quick shower!” He bolts off. At least he seems to have a reasonable amount of energy.

 

You take a moment to make him a cup of coffee, leaving it on his workbench with a straw for when he gets down. Hopefully it won't be cold by the time he gets back.

 

 

\--

 

 

“Did you leave this here?” he asks, motioning to the coffee after having showered in seemingly record time. At least he seems back to normal, changed bag and all.

 

“Mhm. Sorry. I was going to join you to help find the piece after feeding 5.0.5. last night but I was tired and distracted.”

 

“It’s alright. I had three hatbots helping me and still ended up falling asleep after several hours. I don’t think an extra hand would have made a difference at that point.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Thanks for this by the way.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

“I’m just about ready to start assembling a new one,” Flug groans. “Even with the added help of the robotic henchmen, I haven’t been able to find the missing piece. It would have saved some time but I suppose I can assemble a new one today without setting production too far back.”

 

“That’s good. How late would we have to stay up to finish it?”

 

“Depends. I don’t think you’ll want to stay up too late. Finish your assignment and we’ll see how the day goes.”

 

“And what if we find it?”

 

“Then we’ll have a spare for the next time I make a ray gun and that'll save us a lot of time.”

 

\--

 

You’ve been without a break all day and are beginning to get about as grumpy as you are hungry and tired. Flug drops some pieces on your workstation and returns to his.

 

“More of these?” You’ve managed to keep a decent speed going despite your broken fingers and were glad to see the pile dwindling.

 

“Keep ‘em coming.”

 

“Why are there so many of these anyway? I don’t even know what the pieces I’m assembling do.”

 

"They’re complex machine parts that I’m using to harness an isolated magic and transform into versatile forms of energy. I can explain it for you but I can't help you understand it."

 

"You know, you could try not being a condescending jerk when you talk to me," you offer. Whoops. Maybe don't talk to anyone when you're this hungry and tired.

 

"Th-that wasn't my intention." He sounds caught extremely off guard by your frustrated response.

 

"Do you listen to yourself when you speak?"

 

"I mean, I can hear myself-- Oh."

 

He seems to get it.

 

"Yeah, you're just really rude. I'm doing my best, you know. I was curious about what I’ve been assembling."

 

"I should apologize for-- I, um-- I'm sorry I don't especially know how to talk to people."

 

"I can make you a handy guide." Wait until you've turned back away from him to roll your eyes. You’ll post it over his stupid safety gear diagram. You’ve memorized that by now anyway.

 

"I don't have very much experience with social interaction," he mumbles, focusing on his work. You're not sure if that was a twinge of embarrassment or resentment.

 

You turn back to face him. "Didn't you have any friends as a kid?"

 

"I'm fairly certain that the reason my peers hated me was a fear of my intelligence and a lack of their own, leading them not understand the underlying cause for their disdain," he ponders aloud.

 

"Or maybe it's because you don't think before you speak," you offer. "Social skills are skills. They need to be practised for you to improve."

 

"I'm trying," he frets, looking up and in your direction. True, he did apologize.

 

"Well it's a start." You try to keep your tone cheerful and encouraging.

 

...

 

He's just staring at you. Ugh, where the hell do you even start with this guy?

 

"Okay, Doctor. We can practise if you want-- have a decent conversation." Your patience is growing thin. "Do you have anything you want to try talking about?"

 

He pauses for a moment.

 

"Do you... like planes?" His voice sounded so hopeful for a second.

 

If it'll allow him to practise talking to you without being condescending or awkward. "Sure,” you concede, “let's talk about planes."

 

"Did you know there are certain planes with horizontal stabilizers at the front?"

 

"Tell me about it," you offer, modelling appropriate social conduct and hoping he catches on.

 

He sits up straighter than you've seen him and actually rotates a little in his chair, leaning his arm on the back and inclining toward you. "W-well!!" he begins quite rapidly, "There's this one specific model by Beechcraft that's particularly fascinating! It's their Starship model-- it had an unfortunately limited twelve-year production run but the first three years were strictly development and the commercially available ones weren't off the ground until six years in."

 

"R-really?" You have to admit that you're a little taken aback by his sudden enthusiasm and demonstration of random trivial knowledge.

 

"Yes! It's a twin turboprop engine with a canard design-- The wings are designed with an almost triangular forewing by the way--" He starts making a triangle shape with his hands. "Think of the tail of a dart-- no, wait, that's a bad example-- wait, let me draw it for you." He pulls a scrap of paper from the trash and hurries over to you, drawing a triangular-winged aircraft with the propellers on backward. "Here, at the front-- This is where the horizontal stabilizers go." He sketches them on really quickly.

 

"It looks like this plane has a moustache."

 

He laughs in earnest. "Oh no, why would you say that?! I can't unsee that now."

 

"Well it's true! Look!" You take a pencil and elongate the stabilizers, curling them up. Draw a little top hat on it while you're at it.

 

"I say, good sir," you try to make your voice sound as pompous as possible, faking a snobby posh accent as you voice the plane, "I do say I've been designed with my bottom on my face."

 

Flug's practically doubled over. It wasn't even that funny.

 

"You okay, doc?"

 

"I can't believe you're actually funny," he laughs.

 

"Okay, _that_ is the kind of thing we're trying to work on," you point out. "Rude statement. Please don't phrase it like that!"

 

"O-oh, sorry. Alright, how should I phrase it?" He's still recovering.

 

"Like it's not something you couldn't believe I was capable of. Just, 'you're really funny' or 'that was a good joke' or something."

 

"You have outstanding taste in humour," he praises.

 

"Thank you, Doctor." You nod, chuckling. It really wasn't even that funny.

 

He adds a monocle to the plane and walks over to the cluttered bulletin board to pin it up.

 

"I love this," he declares.

 

"It's pretty great."

 

"We should talk about planes more often!"

 

"Sure, if you like it." If it’ll get him to practise being social in a positive way.

 

He gives you an awkward thumbs up as he returns to his seat. You notice a happy-looking foot tap that definitely wasn't present a few minutes ago. This is much better than grumbling condescending Flug anyway. Maybe you're making some actual friends in this place.

 


	10. Closed Circuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These awkward idiots.

 

Cleaning behind this desk for the first time since you've started working here. It's filthy.

 

Wait, there's a part of the circuit board under here! You've been looking for this for over a week! Flug kept saying he was going to rebuild it but has been anxiously procrastinating it all week.

 

Mad dash!

 

"Dr. Flug! Dr. Flug!" You rush into the room off to the side of the lab, excitedly waving the circuit board.

 

Flug’s on the phone. He holds up a finger, shushing you without looking up as he takes notes.

 

"Mhm. Yes. Manor 333 Hat Ave., Hat Island, Hatsville." He pauses, listening. "Yes. Exactly. Please bring all the necessary documents."

 

Boooooo. Your timing sucks. It's kind of silly to see the doctor using his shoulder to press the phone against his ear, crumpling his paper bag slightly as he takes notes in a planner. You catch the tiniest glimpse of his jawline with the combination of his awkward bent over position and shoulder phone. Looks like he hasn’t shaved anything but his neck for days. He must have been pretty overworked this week.

 

Don’t stare.

 

"We'll be looking forward to it." His manner of speaking is quite different on the phone. It's more... courteous and inviting. "Thank you. We'll be seeing you." Actually, scratch that; there’s something subtly ominous and intimidating about his tone.

 

You wait for him to hang up and finish jotting something down. He then moves to the intercom and pages the boss, still not paying attention to you.

 

"Yes?" Black Hat usually sounds angry or impatient when dealing with his staff but he sounds like he's a in a good mood for some reason.

 

"S-sir, your four o'clock cancelled so you've been cleared up." There’s that familiar tone.

 

"Did they give a reason?" That growl is terrifying even through the intercom.

  

Flug fills him in and complies when Black Hat tells him to keep the rest of the evening free, making a note in the planner.

 

"We also have a new customer for a consultation next Thursday at two,” he informs the boss. “Application went through."

 

Black Hat laughs triumphantly and hangs up without thanking Flug, who slumps his shoulders as he sighs and turns around after disconnecting. "Yes?"

 

"Um, I found this!" You hold up the piece excitedly.

 

"Oh!" He immediately straightens up. "That's fantastic! Where was it?" He's probably relieved that you can cancel your order for the materials you ordered to replace it. Actually, he's probably happier that he doesn't have to spend more time rebuilding it considering how soon the testfire is.

 

"It fell behind the desk in the lab!" Come to think of it, why didn’t anyone think to check somewhere so obvious? This guy’s supposed to be a genius. Even you should have thought to look somewhere so logical.

 

"Brilliant!" He rushes up and takes it from you, holding it up to inspect it. "It'll need some cleaning but this is excellent."

 

"I'm happy you're so happy!"

 

He recoils slightly at the statement.

 

"Hey, are you okay?"

 

"What? Of course," he insists. "Why?" He pulls the piece closer at this, holding it almost defensively up against his chest.

 

"It's okay, never mind. We did it! We found it!" You clamp your hands over his and jump up and down a little, trying to revive the celebratory mood.

 

Flug seems to shrink under your actions.

 

"Come on, doc, we should celebrate!"

 

"R-right! Um! Take a longer break tonight for finding it. A-actually, maybe stop working at four and hide out in your room. The boss’ appointment got cancelled and he's always looking to make us miserable when he has free time-- _will you please let go of my hands, I am incredibly uncomfortable_ ," he snaps.

 

"Oh! Right! I'm so sorry!" You pull your hands off. It's not like you were actually touching him seeing as he's wearing those thick nitrile gloves but still. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable! I'm sorry!"

 

"N-no, it's-- I mean-- You didn't-- Ugh, it's fine."

 

"No, I'm sorry! It's not fine," you maintain. "If you don't want me to touch you then I won't."

 

"It's not that! I'm sorry I snapped. I was anxious." His tone is so frustrated. You wonder if his expression matches under that paper bag.

 

"I'm sorry for stressing you!"

 

"W-we can both be sorry then," he chuckles, mood lightened. "H-here." He gives your shoulder an awkward pat. "There we go."

 

"Sounding a little strained there," you chuckle.

 

"I'm trying to appear more personable. I hope it's working."

 

"You didn't seem to have a problem on the phone," you remark.

 

"It's not the same. The people on the phone see us as highly respectable and dangerous."

 

"So? I see you as respectable and dangerous. What's the difference?"

 

"Y-you do?"

 

"Well, I mean, yeah. You work for Black Hat. Your inventions are brilliant. You practically run the place--"

 

You're interrupted by a squawk.

 

"A-are you okay, Doctor?"

 

"Y-yes I'm absolutely fine!"

 

He takes a step backward and you notice that his hands are shaking.

 

"Are you sure?"

 

Oh.

 

Aw, that's kind of cute. His entire neck is covered in a patchy redness.

 

"I'm fine! It's fine. Th-thank you for finding the piece."

 

"You're welcome. Let me know if you need anything else, alright? I'll hide out in my room at four to avoid the boss." You give him a thumbs up and turn to walk away before stopping. "If you want, we can talk about planes or something.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's not okay.


	11. Vanilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people can't work under pressure.

 

It's been a long day but you've made a decent amount of progress both assembling things and cleaning.

 

The sound of Black Hat's voice echoes through the halls, punctuated by the occasional whimper. They're coming from the lab. Was Flug in the lab all along? How did you miss him? You hear a crash followed by more whimpering and hurried explanations though you can't quite catch everything being said.

 

It's best to let Black Hat exit before checking in. You do _not_ want to run into him any time soon.

 

Flug's hunched over some metal components, soldering the final parts onto the incomplete circuit board you found yesterday.

 

"H-hey, doc. What're you working on tonight?"

 

"Still trying to finish the prototype for our disintegrator ray," he grumbles, not looking up. “I’m going to be up all night.”

 

"You never did explain how it works." You figure some cheerful interest will probably get his spirits up.

 

For a second he straightens up to face you almost excitedly but then stops himself and bends back over his work.

 

"Splits molecules. I'm concentrating. Get out." The stress in his voice is evident. He doesn’t seem to be able to work very well under pressure.

 

"Sorry." To be fair, you'd probably be in a constantly volatile emotional state if you had to be in as much contact with the boss as Flug does. He did just get yelled at and probably physically hurt.

 

You're almost at the door when you get an idea. You need allies in this hellhole anyway and he seems like he’s starting to come around. You might as well try something.

 

"Can I get you something?"

 

"Me?" Flug sits up a little and points to himself, confused.

 

" _No, the bear_ ,” you sass. “Yes, you."

 

"Don't speak to me in that tone."

 

You sigh. "Look, I know the boss has been extra hard on you lately. Is there something I can do to make your job easier? I was going to get myself some ice cream. You want a milkshake or something you can drink with a straw?" It's hard to not sound exhausted as you make the offer but it's on the table so good job.

 

He works in silence, processing what you just said for a moment before muttering, "vanilla."

 

"Ice cream?"

 

"Shake. Milk and ice cream in a blender. That’s it. No weird stuff."

 

"Okay. Got it." You turn around and make your way to the door.

 

"A-actually! Never mind! It's alright."

 

"What? Really?"

 

He grumbles something inaudible from where you are.

 

"I'm not going to poison you, you know."

 

"Why would you even say that?" He sounds almost panicked. "Get _out_."

 

Ugh, this guy is so difficult. At least you tried.

 

You're going to make yourself a damn milkshake.

 

\--

 

"What the hell is this?" Flug seems annoyed by the fact that you just placed a drink on his workbench.

 

"Vanilla milkshake."

 

"I said didn't want one."

 

"Well I made myself one and the blender was big enough for two so you can just leave it there if you want."

 

"It's merely... ice cream and milk?"

 

"Yes."

 

"...Same as yours?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Can I have the one you're holding?"

 

"I already drank from this one."

 

"I don't care."

 

"Okay, weirdo."

 

"Don't call me that." He brings the drink up to his face, sniffing the vanilla through the paper bag he's wearing and stirring it. He seems pleased by the rich texture. Or so you’d like to hope. You can’t actually tell with that bag over his face.

 

" _Doctor_ Weirdo then?"

 

His body language is definitely indicating that he just shot you the dirtiest look.

 

"Oh my gosh, sorry. Relax-- and that's not poison. I was just drinking from it."

 

"I never accused you of trying to poison me. You don’t have mononucleosis, do you? People tend to mysteriously come down with it when they deal with the boss for extended periods of time." He stirs the drink nervously.

 

“Can’t say I’m showing mono symptoms at the moment.”

 

He swaps the straws and slides the new up his bag, taking a tentative sip and pausing for a moment.

 

"Just checking. I got it badly when I started working here. Most people who work here come down with it at least once. Had a new hire get it so badly their spleen ruptured."

 

"Ummm."

 

"Clients get it too," he adds. "We had to put a disclaimer in the instructional videos we sell. Potentially some curse. Who knows?"

 

"Ummmm."

 

"You might not. Who knows?" he reassures. "Swollen lymph nodes for a couple of weeks. You'll be fine." He's probably trying to sound encouraging but he's not doing a very good job.

 

"Y-you're welcome then." You grab the shake that was supposed to be his and gesture to him with it as if to say cheers before you take a sip. Perhaps it was nerves that caused you to be overzealous and give yourself almost instant brain freeze. Don't show weakness. Don't show weakness.  _Gosh_.

 

"Th-thank you." Flug's tone is strangely quiet. He's not even paying attention to your struggle as he sits there, stirring his milkshake seemingly lost in thought.

 

Why is the silence so damn heavy every time when you're with this guy?

 

"Are you alright, Doctor?"

 

"Why?"

 

You lean against the workbench and take a sip of your shake. "The boss was screaming about something earlier. Are you okay?"

 

"I'm fine," he sighs. "He always does that." He’s nonchalant about it. He’s probably used to it.

 

"Does he hurt you and Demencia the way he got me a while back?"

 

"Not usually to that extreme but he did catch my lapels today." He's still absentmindedly stirring that milkshake.

 

At least he seems more candid with you than usual. Maybe you're finally building some trust.

 

"Scary," you practically whisper.

 

"Have you ever seen him shapeshift?"

 

"I think so."

 

"It smells like rotten meat when he does. Usually only happens when he’s uncontrollably upset or particularly sadistic."

 

"Sounds like he has to really concentrate to keep his human-esque form when you put it that way..."

 

"Probably." He takes another sip, making some slurping noises with the straw as he gets to the bottom of his milkshake. "He _is_ a monster masquerading as a charismatic salesman. I'd stay away from him as much as possible if I were you. He put me in charge of you so you wouldn't disturb him."

 

"Don't need to tell me twice." You finish up you shake and motion for him to hand you his glass.

 

"Thanks for the shake." The fact that he actually thanked you lifts your spirits slightly. Maybe you’re actually getting through to him with the social stuff.

 

"You're welcome. Sometimes a little pick-me-up goes a long way, you know?"

 

"It certainly does." There we go, he actually sounds content. "I have to finish this though. Test-fire's scheduled for tomorrow. We’re shooting the ad in a couple of days if it goes well."

 

"Next week. Got it. Can I help with anything?"

 

"Not on this project. It needs final assembly and the procedure is too dangerous."

 

"Alright. I'm heading to my room for the night then."

 

"See you in the morning."

 

" _Goodnight_ ," you offer.

 

"Oh, right-- goodnight." That was the most awkward hunched semi-wave you've ever seen by someone with zero social skills and it was kind of cute.

 

Make a mental note of that grumpiness-curing discovery.


	12. Shoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There isn't a script per se.

 

Flug's spent the last half an hour teaching you how to assemble the cambot. Apparently it shouldn't take more than ten minutes to fully assemble but he's taken his time to properly instruct you and teach you how to troubleshoot.

 

"Demencia's out today so the shoot _should_ go relatively well without her crashing it."

 

"Does he go off script or something?"

 

"There isn't a script per se." His hand moves to the back of his neck and he rubs it anxiously.

 

"Oh? It's improvised?"

 

"Yes and no. There's a bit of a point form that the boss and I will sometimes run through before a shoot. When he feels as though it’s worth his time."

 

“That happen often?”

 

“Infrequently. Closer to never,” he admits.

 

Of course.

 

"What do I need to worry about for today then?" you ask.

 

"You're going to have to shoot something with the ray gun. That's about it. You'll be invited up when it's your time to shine so you don't need to worry about looking for cues."

 

"Do I get a practise shot before we shoot the commercial?"

 

He chuckles. "Nah."

 

"W-why not?" you squawk. Great, so much for not sounding nervous.

 

"It's more authentic to get a first-time user reaction." Ugh, why does Flug seem to relish your suffering? His voice definitely sounded amused. "We'll be starting in ten." He pats you on the head as he walks by and you can't tell if that was supposed to be condescending or not.

 

You look over to the stage setup. Two adorable koalas are positioned in the background of the set, making you quite nervous about the whole situation. The ray gun you're advertising sits on a pedestal, ready to be snatched off its velvet cushion and demonstrated.

 

“Should I worry about anything? Is there something I absolutely should or should not do?”

 

“Don’t maintain extended eye or skin contact with the boss. That’s a general rule of thumb unless you want to develop infectious mononucleosis, welts, itching, nausea, a headache, find your body changing--”

 

“What?”

 

“Or lose your soul,” he continues, “your sanity, your hair and nails--”

 

“Okay, okay. I get it. Yikes. Don’t look him in the eye for too long. Got it--”

 

Black Hat makes his entrance looking unreadable as he scans the setup and moves to centre stage.

 

"Is everything ready?" he asks neither sounding excited nor bored. You suppose this is just a regular part of his business routine.

 

"We're ready to start in about a minute, sir," Flug confirms.

 

Try not to look too nervous.

 

Black Hat's in the room, making that physically impossible. He shoots you a look.

 

“You, ugly girl. Come here.”

 

“Y-yes sir!”

 

He gestures at the dressing and pins on your hand. “That eyesore is distracting. Away with it.”

 

“I-I can’t just pull the pins out of my fingers, sir!”

 

“ _Away with it_.”

 

Searing pain shoots through you as the pins rocket out of your fingers with a wave of his hand. You scream as the bandages unravel before your eyes.

 

Flug anxiously averts his eyes as he steps onto the stage and stops about an arm’s distance away from Black Hat. Just a little behind him. The cambot beeps its countdown as you scramble to gather the pins and dressing.

 

Gulp.

 

"Greetings, sinful spectators. Black Hat here once again to fulfill your wildest fantasies with the newest addition to our catalogue."

 

Gosh, the swagger he puts on. It'd be too much coming from anyone else. You find yourself clenching and unclenching your hand, testing your newly regained painless ease of movement as you watch him.

 

"Is our Death Ray line perhaps too gruesome for you, _you repulsive, weak-minded, soft, disgraceful, vile, unworthy, disgusting, useless vermin--?”_

 

“Too much, sir,” Flug intervenes.

 

 _“_ So edit it out, you idiot,” Black Hat spits impatiently.

 

“W-will do!”

 

“Looking for something slightly more subtle but equally _destructive?_ Induce fear in the lives of heroes everywhere with Black Hat Organization's new Disintegrator Ray."

 

The spotlight flashes onto the ray gun, glimmering impressively.

 

"Dr. Flug," he invites.

 

"This disintegrator ray guarantees complete and immediate annihilation of your target!" Flug instructs, looking quite proud of his creation. "Simply aim and shoot for complete particle dispersion!" He looks kind of cute when he talks about his inventions this excitedly.

 

Black Hat snatches the ray gun from its pedestal and aims it at the koala on the set. "Why do dirty work when your job can be this clean?"

 

He shoots one of the poor, innocent koalas and it looks terrified and pained before immediately disappearing with a sizzle and a hiss of steam. _Noo_.

 

"Dead or alive, it will effectively eliminate everything from your enemies to the evidence," Black Hat elaborates, shooting the pedestal the gun was presented on and causing it to vanish in the same way. "But of course I make it look easy. I make everything look easy. Now, what would happen if we gave it to someone useless?"

 

He pauses for dramatic effect. What a ham.

 

"Black Hat's new guarantee: Any bumbling idiot can do it. Look at this goody goody nitwit for example." You whimper as he pulls you into the frame, clawing into your skin with relish. " _Say hello, sweetheart_." Ugh, that last bit was condescending and insincere. He wouldn’t call anyone that unless it was to piss them off.

 

You whimper whenever his voice changes to that unholy tone. "H-hello."

 

"No. With style, you idiot. Dr. Flug, edit that out."

 

"Yes, boss." Oh, you just noticed that Flug's stepped off and is by the cambot now that he isn't needed in the shots anymore.

 

"Close up. Try again. Show some class before you ruin my entire brand," Black Hat spits.

 

"I-I thought the point was that I'm supposed to be normal--" You squeal when his face peels back and he hisses at you, fleshless. The putrid scent of rotting meat fills your nostrils and you struggle not to gag as you recoil in fear. "Okay! Okay! I can do classy! I'm doing classy!"

 

"Not too classy," Black Hat warns. The putrid stench that escaped him doesn’t quite dissipate when he resumes his usual dapper form.

 

You turn to the cambot and wave meekly. "Hello, villains!"

 

Flug gives that a thumbs up that's almost a little too enthusiastic.

 

"Now watch as even the most useless of minions can be of service with the proper tools," Black Hat reinforces. " _Shoot that annoyingly cute thing_ ," he barks.

 

You whimper and lock eyes with the koala, fuzzy and innocent. How the hell does Black Hat expect you to murder this cute thing in cold blood? Oh noooo. Just close your eyes and try not to squeal as you shoot. Welp. That failed; you definitely squealed.

 

"Watch where you're shooting," Black Hat snarls.

 

You open your eyes and look up to see a lack of koala. Looks like you did it. Try not to let your eyes visibly tear up as you look around frantically, making eye contact with Flug standing by the cambot in search of reassurance. Ugh, he's doing that thing where it's impossible to tell what kind of emoting is happening under his stupid paper bag.

 

"Let's see you shoot that bunny as well," Black Hat instructs as Flug presses a button releasing a panel from beneath where the koalas were to reveal possibly the most adorable lop-eared rabbit. Well, at least the boss had discussed there being a bunny at some point.

 

You eye the rabbit in the cage. It's not going to hurt, is it? It's not like shooting it with a gun, right? It didn't hurt the koala, right? Ugh, it probably hurts. Better to put it out of its frantic nose-twitching misery, right?

 

Shit.

 

 _Fire_.

 

"Oh! I did it again!" you squeal delightedly. Despite being upset at having to kill it, at least you're proud of the fact that you managed to not screw up on camera. That rabbit wouldn't have had a better life if it had been spared anyway, right? Living in a cage in Hat Manor? Quick and over in a second; better for it than having to live here.

 

Black Hat seems unamused at your excited search for approval. He snatches the ray gun from you and aims it at a chair off screen, firing enthusiastically and cackling.

 

"Preorders open on the fifth."

 

"Aaaand cut," concludes Flug. "Looks good, boss. It'll be edited and up soon in order to give our clients enough time to preorder."

 

Black Hat leaves the disintegrator ray on a table and walks off, completely ignoring Flug, who eventually sulks a little.

 

"Is he always like that?" You ask, picking up the ray gun to hand it back to Flug.

 

"Completely ungrateful and consistently refusing to acknowledge his staff's efforts?" Yikes, that was justifiably bitter-sounding. "Why yes. Yes, he is always like that." Flug turns the safety on and puts the ray gun back down before moving to the cambot to disassemble it.

 

You begin helping him unscrew the components. "At least the shoot went well, right?"

 

"That's true. They can be disastrous."

 

"How did I do?"

 

He gets oddly quiet for a moment. That usual Flug brand of awkward and tense silence fills the air, thickening it as you wait for a response.

 

"Doctor?"

 

"Well. Um. You did well. Good job and stuff." His tone is an oddly flat murmur.

 

"Are you sure?"

 

Awkward silence. He looks almost as though he’s frozen in place. After a pregnant pause, he seems to finally loosen up with a hint of a heavier exhale.

 

"Mhm. Can you finish packing these pieces up? I suppose it's best if I edit the footage as soon as possible."

 

"S-sure?" Why is the atmosphere so tense with this guy sometimes? "I think you did a good job too. It's kind of nice hearing you talk about your inventions. You get all excited and passionate and stuff and it’s--" You look up from the equipment you're storing to gauge his reaction to your compliment only to see Flug awkwardly shuffle out.

 

Inhale slowly.

 

"Dr. Flug, you can't just run away halfway through someone's sentence!" you call after him.

 

Aaaaaand he’s gone.

 

This guy definitely needs more practise when it comes to social interaction.

 


	13. Viral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That might have been caused by something evident.

 

You wake up feeling like Absolute Garbage and would give almost anything to stay in bed. It’s been two days since the shoot and you felt increasingly nasty as the day progressed yesterday. Ugh, your neck hurts almost as your left side. Dammit. Drag yourself out of bed and stagger down to the lab in time for work. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll get some kind of sympathy. (You doubt it.)

 

Your workstation’s a mess as you were too exhausted to tidy up before heading to bed last night. You started feeling terrible earlier on in the day but felt whatever you’ve down with grow in severity over your work period yesterday. The fatigue you’re experiencing is making it hard to even concentrate on setting up. Nasty.

 

At least you’re already set up when Flug come into the lab with coffees for the two of you. He seems pleased that you’re already at work as he places them on your workbench to pick up yesterday’s work for inspection.

 

“Morning doc,” you grumble.

 

Of course you’re greeted with an awkward silence before he tentatively asks what’s gotten into you, cutting himself off halfway through posing his question.

 

“Get out of my lab,” he orders.

 

“What? Why?” You probably look like trash but you didn’t expect such almost scared body language.

 

“Your lymph nodes are so swollen that you look like you have two balls sticking out of your neck. I’m not about to catch that mono of yours with my current experiment running on a strict schedule.”

 

“What?” You squint and recoil slightly at his statement. Fatigue-induced confusion setting in has definitely impaired your cognitive abilities at this point. It clicks only as he starts elaborating.

 

“Mononucleosis is extremely common among new hires. There’s something about the boss that seems to induce it. Please go to your room and stay there for the next week or two-- or until the symptoms subside. Do not touch anything. Do not go near my room or touch my doorknob. Do not use anything in the kitchen.” He glances at the coffees he placed on your desk and snatches them up to make his way over to the sink for dumping. He could have left yours! “And do not,” he continues, pouring the coffee down the drain, “put your mouth on anything that is not disposable.”

 

“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”

 

“This is serious. Despite the incubation period being relatively long, I can’t afford to catch it.”

 

You groan and put your head on your desk with a _thunk_.

 

“Out,” he orders.

 

“How do you know you haven’t already caught it?”

 

“I don’t but I’m not risking it. Go,” he orders.

 

You grumble at his tone despite being relieved to be allowed to sleep.

 

Yes.

 

Sweet slumber. Bed rest. Time off. When was the last time you had time off? 

 

\--

 

5.0.5. makes the best assistant. He’s been bringing you food and water in disposable cups and plates all week. Your room’s been feeling stuffy but at least you’re beginning to feel better.

Okay, that’s a lie. You wonder if 5.0.5. is the one making the food. You’ve never seen Flug cook but he probably wouldn’t have the time. Besides, the food is usually too burnt to lead you to believe it was made by a person when it’s not a smoothie. The smoothies are probably Flug’s work. TV dinners or take-out, otherwise. Whatever, you’re not complaining. You’re only awake to eat about half of them anyway.

 

You still feel like trash after days and days. The fatigue is plaguing you and your fever keeps coming and going. Being able to swallow or not feel the pressure in your neck sure would be nice.

 

The occasional scream filtering through the walls is definitely something you’ve grown accustomed to since moving in but the yelling that persists one night piques your curiosity. How long has it been since you’ve left your room? A week? More? You’ve been drifting in and out of sleep so much that you’ve completely lost track of time. Staying awake is exhausting and your muscles are weak from disuse.

 

Sitting up causes a head rush that makes you want to lie back down but you lie massaging your throat and then head for a moment after a first attempt to find yourself successful in your second. Nice. Stagger out on your wobbly legs to find the source of the yelling.

 

That’s probably a bad idea.

 

You peek in to see Black Hat screaming at Flug over something on the screen in the lab.

 

"You made her look too good! What is this rubbish?"

 

"Did I, now?" he muses. There's something almost deliberately absent-minded about his undertone despite his usual superficial cowardice.  

 

"Yes, you idiot. Look at this." Black Hat gestures angrily at the screen. "She's too popular. Absolutely… what’s the term??”

 

“V-viral, sir.”

 

“Viral then. They've made her into one of those whatchamacallits--”

 

“Memes," Flug offers weakly.

 

Black Hat looks annoyed more than anything, which is odd considering his usual output seems to be rage.

 

There are very few things he can do in terms of technology use to the point where the manor is littered with rotary phones. Well, that might be an aesthetic thing over a practical thing. Who knows?

 

Of course, being the narcissist that he is, he was at least able to make the effort to learn how to check the company webpage’s comments and pageviews. That’s a lie. He was at least able to make Flug give him a handwritten step-by-step list of instructions on how to turn on the computer and click the desktop shortcut to the website. Too bad the process usually ends up in him yelling at Flug to troubleshoot as he seems to have a hard time navigating his own company’s website.

 

There are very few computers in the place to begin with-- Hat Manor is probably the only building in town that still has typewriters in use. Come to think of it, you wonder if the computer in the lab came out of Flug’s own pocket. Black Hat has never really been inclined to invest in technology that isn’t directly related to a product he’s selling. You vaguely wonder if he’s afraid to learn new things or if he just enjoys being a miserable old man who can’t be bothered.

 

Cue the cowering once it dawns on Flug that the boss is actually mad at him.

 

“Fix this,” Black Hat spits.

 

“B-but sir, s-sales are through the roof since the ad launched! It’s only been a few days and we’ve gotten over a month’s worth of orders! The phones have been ringing off the hook!”

 

“You imbecile, they’re demonstrating positive emotions on our web...thing!!”

 

“Webpage,” Flug offers.

 

“Where’s the angry comment section chaos?! The comment section only exists to be the bowels of the internet-- the pits of hell-- the purest evil and only proper thing to come out of the invention of computers!”

 

“But this is _g-good_ , sir! It’s good for business!”

 

“No! I want suffering. Writhing. People coming down with illnesses, gouging at their eyes, pulling out their spleens, _sacrificing their first-born child_.”

 

“Money! I thought you wanted money,” Flug insists.

 

“If I wanted money I’d have you steal more gold. We don’t need money. Money’s easy to acquire.”

 

“But boss! You wanted her to be the new face of the organization!”

 

“ _I_ _'m_ the face of this organization. This is _Black Hat Organization_ not _Imbecile Goody-Goody Sick and Dying Upstairs Organization_.”

 

Yeah, that’s probably where you should be right now.

 

You wobble off, satisfied with the amount of that conversation and not wishing to push your luck. Demencia pushes past you, excited to hear Black Hat yelling and probably looking to harass him. How can this girl not take a hint, honestly?

 

Chaos ensues in the distance but you ignore it and flop back into your bed and head to sleep, satisfied that you were at least able to accomplish something-- even if it mean the boss getting upset. Something tells you the boss would have been upset regardless of the outcome. He doesn’t like you very much. He doesn’t like anyone very much.

 

Maybe you should try being more evil.

 

\--

 

By the time you’re feeling well enough to go back to work... you’re kind of dreading it. Hauling your weakened self down to the lab when you finally feel ready makes you feel less ready by the second. What if you never had to work again? Wouldn’t that be nice?

 

“How’s your health?” Flug hesitantly inquires when he makes his way in with a coffee.

 

“I’m feeling better. You didn’t catch it, right?”

 

“No, I didn’t.”

 

Something about the exchange feels more awkward than it should but the initial tension subside when Flug starts filling you in on the work you missed as well as what’s happening. He never really goes into too much detail about the things he’s researching in some of the rooms you don’t have access to.

 

“Um--” you interrupt, “Dr. Flug, may I ask why you just sent me upstairs for two and a half weeks?”

 

“You were sick,” he states matter-of-factly.

 

“It didn’t occur to you that I might be taking longer than I needed?”

 

“I’m sure hoping you’re not stupid enough to try that while working here.”

 

“O-oh,” you cede. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

 

He chuckles and pushes his paper bag mask up a little to take a sip of his coffee, enabling you catch a glimpse of his unshaven jawline. Huh, that’s new. Maybe he’s been so overworked that he’s forgotten to order straws.

 

“Though I did hear him yelling at you for making the ad work out.” Don’t draw attention to what just happened. You might scare him off.

 

“He fails to appreciate how effective we made it.”

 

“The grumble of unrecognized genius,” you half-joke.

 

He perks up and offers to show it to you, guiding you to his desk and letting you sit in his chair as he pulls up the site. If there’s one way to put Flug in a good mood, it’s to compliment him. Actually, scratch that-- that often scares him off.

 

Of course it looks great with the the majority of boss’ rage and ranting edited out. Flug really did capture your better angles with the cambot.

 

“Haha, you made me look cute.”

 

“I didn’t have to do any work trying.”

 

“Oooh, was that a compliment?” You look up at him watching the ad over your shoulder to see him redden almost immediately on whatever visible patches of neck he has exposed.

 

Silence.

 

“You’re blushing,” you point out.

 

“No I’m not!”

 

 _“Really?”_ You raise an eyebrow.

 

“I’m not,” he chokes, “and we have to get to work.”

 

Some sort of animal or monster screaming fills the lab minutes later and Flug takes the opportunity to leave you alone with the enormous to-do list on your desk.

 

Fine.

 


	14. Cover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run and hide.

You’re on coffee duty every second day. You bring it down to the lab, expecting Flug to be there. Whoever’s not on coffee duty usually makes it there first.

 

He isn’t.

 

Hm. You place his coffee on his desk. You can tell he hasn’t come down yet since his lab coat’s still hung up. You put yours on and sip your coffee, reviewing your to-do list.

 

You groan. Why is there a deadline nearly every day?

 

Demencia skips in happily.

 

“Hey Dem, there’s a fresh pot of coffee upstairs,” you offer.

 

“Energy drinks?” It’s kind of cute when she tilts her head to the side like a puppy.

 

“Um… I’m not sure. I didn’t check. The coffee’s fresh though so if you want some you should take it.”

 

“Sweet!” She grabs Flug’s off his desk, assuming it’s for her, and prances off.

 

No use arguing. Make your way upstairs for a fresh cup.

 

\--

 

“You’re late,” Flug remarks, sorting paperwork by the time you get back.

 

“Same to you, doc. I got here so long ago that Demencia had time to steal the first coffee I made you,” you retort.

 

“O-oh.” He pauses looking uncomfortable. “Um. Thank you.” He takes the coffee from you.

 

Wait for it.

 

Nope, he went back to work.

 

You clear your throat.

 

“What?” Flug looks irritated. He’s only just taking in his to-do list.

 

"I made you a coffee and got scolded for being late. I only needed to get you a second one because you were slow enough to give Demencia a chance to steal the first. I didn’t deserve a scolding."

 

“Sorry.” It’s flat and absent-minded as he distractedly pulls sticky notes from the wall in a hasty triage of priorities.

 

That’s probably all you’re going to get.

 

“Thanks,” you sigh.

 

\--

 

What if, for one damn day, Black Hat didn’t storm into the lab and either hurt someone or break work in progress? He’s particularly angry today and you have no idea what you did to merit this. What if you managed to hide before he could nab your ankle with a tendril, making you smash your chin on the ground?

 

“You,” he barks.

 

You whimper in response. Every hair on your body is on end. Adrenaline courses through you as he looks you in the eye. A predatory monster a moment from murder sizing up prey as you squirm and flail, trying not to vomit.

 

“What have you done today to merit not being murdered?”

 

“I took calls and placed orders,” you cry as he tightens his grip on you. No. Don’t touch. You’ve been working hard. You made his advertisement successful.

 

“Inadequate--”

 

“Black Hat!” Demencia intervenes, “Ask me what _I_ did today!”

 

 _Please pay attention to her instead_.

 

“Leave, Demencia!” Black Hat’s voice just got fucking terrifying.

 

“Please, look at me!” She tries jumping onto him and he has to sidestep before slowly turning around, releasing you in his distraction. You manage to worm under a workbench for cover wondering how useful she must be to him if he hasn’t incinerated her yet.

 

“I’m not interested in what you’ve done. You’re revolting. Begone.”

 

“Please, Black Hat--”

 

You can smell the nauseating scent of him morphing into some unholy monstrosity and take the opportunity to run out of the lab and seek refuge in the nearest closet as Black Hat turns on Demencia.

 

“Get out,” hisses Flug as you collide with him. Whoops. Tight squeeze.

 

“What’re you doing in here?” you whisper, catching your breath after a startled gasp.

 

“Hiding, obviously. The boss is in a Mood and I’m not exposing myself to that unless he requests my presence. _Your breathing is too loud. Be quiet,_ ” he urges, clamping a hand over your mouth and involuntarily pinning you to the wall with his forearm as he looks to the base of the door in silent panic.

 

Approaching footsteps echo up the hall and you can feel him tense up against you.

 

Hold your breath.

 

Your entire body is trembling violently. Wait, that’s you and Flug. At least you’re not the only one panicking. Close your eyes and grip a handful of Flug’s coat in a desperate hope that Black Hat won’t find and kill you. That’s a stupid thought. If he wanted to find you, he would be able to. He must be distracted.

 

_Please be distracted._

 

A pause in the footsteps when the sound of phone ringing comes from the lab.

 

 _Great._ Now he’s going to know there’s nobody there to answer it.

 

Fuck.

 

Another ring.

 

Angry footsteps resume in the opposite direction of the lab.

 

Goodness.

 

Try not to be too loud when you finally breathe again. The smell of nitrile fills your nostrils and you become hyper-aware of how close the two of you are. You can feel the heat emanating from his body. The smell of his paper mask alongside a faint scent of fresh fear-induced sweat drown his soapy undertone. Frankly, the smell of Flug is comforting after having dealt with a near-death experience. Familiar at the very least.

 

The two of you sit there trembling in unison; waiting for the right time to move. You can feel a knot in your stomach. Your cheeks are growing hot from the extended proximity. You wonder if Flug notices your increasing perspiration.

 

The phone rings again.

 

Black Hat will definitely notice if it goes unanswered once more. Flug releases a shuddering breath and sinks into you until the gap between the two of you is completely closed.  

 

You can’t speak with his hand over your mouth so you opt for a faint whimper, which reminds him of where his hand is.

 

He removes it at the realization and you grip his wrist.

 

“We should go back into the lab,” you breathe.

 

“Give it another minute.” His voice is barely audible. You’re having a hard time hearing the words coming from him under the telephone ring.

 

“Why is he like this?”

 

“Don’t ask why. Simply avoid him when he’s in this bad of a mood.” He flinches at the sound of footsteps skittering past-- probably Demencia’s.

 

“Doctor Flug, you’re crushing me,” you whine. He probably couldn’t help instinctively moving closer at the sound but he was already pressed against you and now you’re having an even harder time breathing.

 

He pauses and takes an almost panicked step backward, freeing himself from your grip, as though it only just occurred to him how in each other's spaces you were.

 

In a mutual decision of the timing, the two of you stumble outside of the closet, glad to breathe in the fresher air of the more open space. You take a good look at Flug, who’s visibly sweating and covered in that patchy redness you’ve seen once or twice.

 

He immediately walks away, anxiously buttoning his lab coat and using a sleeve to wipe the sweat from his neck as you try to follow. He pulls a pill bottle from his coat pocket as he walks and pops two tablets.

 

He pulls another pill from the bottle and extends to you.

 

“Um?”

 

“For anxiety. Under your tongue. You’ll need it today.” He sounds like he’s trying to keep his own tongue down as he shoves the pill into your hand before you can respond.

 

You’re glad Demencia’s no longer in the lab when you get there because it occurs to you how suspicious it might look if the two of you walk in looking winded and sweaty.

 

Huh, where did Flug go? He’s managed to make himself scarce immediately. You barely looked away for a minute.

 

You hear crashing noises and Demencia howling from upstairs. You’re definitely not going to investigate that at the moment.

 

The phone rings again and you lunge for it, not wanting to draw attention to the ringing after two missed calls. Take a deep breath and try to sound as composed as possible as you pick up the receiver.

 

“Black Hat Organization,” you greet.

 


	15. Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demencia really didn’t like all that attention you were getting, huh?

The source of the noise coming from upstairs earlier today becomes evident when you return to your room for the night. It’s been completely ransacked. _Of course._ At least that means Demencia hasn’t been murdered.

 

Did she do this out of jealousy? Spite? Ugh. She never seems happy with the amount of attention you get from the boss.

 

It’s too late for this nonsense but you start moving items off your-- _ew what the fuck?_

 

It’s ink. Or paint. Or something. Spilled all over your mattress. Flipping it doesn’t help since it seems to have seeped all the way through. Why the hell didn’t you have a mattress cover?

 

Groan.

You make your way down the hall in your frustrated, teary-eyed state, too exhausted to deal with this right now. You wouldn’t cry about something so stupid if you hadn’t been working with the boss hovering in a terrible mood for the past sixteen hours. Bite back your crying. You'll look weak. It's just stuff. You hope that your only source of moral support in this damn place doesn't get annoyed by you calling after hours.

 

_Knock knock._

 

A startled jolt followed by a call for you to wait. You haven’t seen Flug since the closet incident earlier today and you’re wondering if it’s going to be awkward. Knowing Flug, it probably will be. The door opens a crack.

 

"You called me by name,” you remark. “How did you know it was me before answering the door?"

 

"You're the only one to have the decency to knock in the first place. Nobody typically disturbs me this late anyw-- hey," he stops when he notices your eyes are welled up. "A-are you alright?"

 

At least he noticed.

 

"Yeah um," your voice shakes for a second as you try to hold it in, "Demencia poured paint all over my bed. I um. I wanted to-- I don't even know anymore. All my stuff’s destroyed. I don’t think I’m allowed to use any of the other guest bedrooms.”

 

“W-wait. Shh. No wait, please don’t cry,” he frets. “Shhh. You’ll draw attention. Wait.” He grabs you by the wrist and hastily pulls you inside, shutting the door behind you and bolting it. Maybe you should install a deadbolt too.

 

“Rules.” Flug begins, “Don’t make a mess and don’t use the boss’ name in my room. Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” he states matter-of-factly.

 

“Right. Got it.” You nod, wiping your eyes. Way to lose your composure.

 

“Why were you crying? It’s only paint.”

 

“I’m sorry I’m just-- I don’t know. It’s late. I’m tired. It’s been a long day of the boss being a prick.”

 

"Why did you come to work here?” Flug asks, distancing himself. “You're not evil."

 

"You don't know that!" you defend.

 

He tilts his head as though he's giving you the most flat look under that bag. It's pretty evident that you're... underqualified for this job.

 

"I'm working on it." You shrug and pause. "...Why would _you_ aspire to work for Bla-- the boss?" Nice save. You almost used his name.

 

A silent impasse of stubborn staring.

 

"He's brilliant," Flug whispers.

 

"He wouldn't hesitate to kill his own staff, would he?"

 

"He would not."

 

"Aren't you scared?"

 

 _"What gave you that idea?"_ Flug’s sarcasm sounds almost offended.

 

Okay, it was a stupid question. Flug flinches defensively whenever the boss enters the room. The violent trembling from earlier today was enough to destroy any doubt that Flug’s terrified of him.

 

"Something between the cowering, the medication, the evident performance anxiety, and the smell of whatever you’ve been smoking in here," you chuckle.

 

"Ha, alright. You've got me there." He begins to walk back to a small desk and you get a better view of his room.

 

It's a little smaller than your room but it's more rectangular than square. By the looks of it, the bathroom off to the side is probably larger than yours.

 

You'd like to say the shelves by his desk are littered with aviation paraphernalia but there's far too much evident order to the system for the word "litter" to feel appropriate. There are also loads of books in alphabetical order. For some reason you were expecting the place to be a gross bachelor pad.

 

"It's clean in here," you remark, wandering further inside.

 

"It's the only place in this house where I can have my own space and belongings."

 

"Demencia's never come in here to antagonize you?"

 

 _"Oh she did. Once,"_ he laughs, sitting in his rolling desk chair. Ha, that's a fucking icy laugh. "Can't keep her out of the lab on the boss' orders but my room on the other hand..." 

 

"Do I want to know what happened?" There isn’t much space between the bed and chair even though he’s pushed the bed against the wall to fit a desk in. You cautiously take a seat at the foot of his bed, facing him.

 

"Ask her." He's laughing to himself, pleased.

 

"I got the impression that you were scared of her."

 

"Of physical confrontation, anyway, hehehehe," Yikes.

 

He leans backward in his chair. There's a small box with some paper bags on one of the shelves a little low to his left. Some thin wire frame glasses are on top of the pile. They look as though they were thrown there hastily. To his right is a mini fridge topped with a small pizza box and an empty plate resting next to a water pipe.

 

"You _do_ eat," you remark.

 

"Well, yes, one generally has to in order to not die." There was something snide about that retort. “You can have some of the pizza if you’d like. I also have some indica strains if you’re still wound up from today.”

 

"But I mean I've only ever seen you drink,” you dwell, helping yourself. “Heck, I’ve seen your jawline all of once."

 

Flug shrugs and resumes working.

 

Come to think of it, the paper bag he’s wearing looks fresh. His masks tend to crumple and deteriorate by the end of the day but he usually seems to have a fresh one in the morning. Did he put a new one on to answer the door?

 

"Why are you drawing at your tiny desk instead of the drafting table downstairs?"

 

"Peace and quiet. It's after hours. Demencia will generally leave me alone. The boss has zero respect and could come in here if he wanted to but he tends to leave us to our own spaces. It's his only mercy if only out of sheer disinterest."

 

"Safe space. Do you think the boss would get mad if I slept on a couch considering what happened to my mattress?"

 

Silence.

 

"He might take it upon himself to antagonize you. I wouldn't risk it. You can sleep in a side room off the lab if you'd like."

 

"On what, fire blankets? I'll risk the couch." You get up and begin to make your way to the exit but stop when a hand grabs your wrist as you walk past Flug.

 

"I wouldn't," he cautions, releasing you almost immediately.

 

"Okay, so?"

 

Silence.

 

"You can... sleep in m-my bed if you want. I mean, I won't be sleeping there too! I-- I have to pull an all-nighter to finish these schematics so I won't be-- I'll p-probably be up all--"

 

You laugh as he shrinks in his chair with you standing over him.

 

"What?!"

 

"Oh my goodness you're like a different person altogether," you laugh.

 

"Say again?"

 

"You always start stuttering when you're nervous-- or overly excited. It's actually pretty cute."

 

"I'll cut you in your sleep," he threatens as red patches form on his neck.

 

"I'm less likely to accept your invitation then," you tease.

 

"I'm less likely to change the sheets then."

 

"I don't care. I'm too tired. As long as it doesn't look like a Pollock painting, I'm fine."

 

"My sheets are clean, thank you very much,” he upholds.

 

"So I can crash then?"

 

"There will be no crashing, but you may sleep over there." He seems offended by your choice of words.

 

"No crashing," you challenge, grabbing one of the model planes on the shelf by his desk and flying it around in your hand. When was the last time you made zooming noises?

 

"Hey--!! Don't touch that!"

 

Plane noises.

 

 _"Stop!"_ He doesn't normally yell at you so it catches you off guard and you freeze.

 

"S-sorry," you stammer, returning it.

 

He neurotically realigns it.

 

"Order." His tone is firm. Final.

 

"O-order," you repeat. "Right." The atmosphere feels heavy all of the sudden.

 

"Don't touch my personal belongings."

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"Go to sleep," he dismisses.

 

"Right."

 

Silence as you shuffle over to the bed. Part of you expected plane sheets but instead you're met with... plain sheets. Oh well. His bed is cosier than yours. You figured all the guest bedrooms adapted into staff living quarters would have the same furnishing. His mattress is smaller but much comfier. Maybe he added a topper.

 

"Anyway, um, that was a really nice plane."

 

"You think so?" He muses, not looking up from his resumed work.

 

"Yeah, I like the colour."

 

"The colour isn't what's important. It's the build!"

 

"I suppose it was easy to grab."

 

"No. Look. This--" He picks it back up and strides over to the bed, sitting on the side. "This is one of my favourite planes. It's a Kaydet."

 

"The paint job’s really nice."

 

"No. Look at the fine design of the undercarriage and the struts between the wings. Find a finer biplane designed in the thirties still used as aerobatic performers and crop dusters to this day that is anywhere as efficient."

 

"Plane shows?"

 

"Aerial acrobatics-- aerobatics."

 

"Fancy word for plane shows," you jokingly offer.

 

"You're being contrary on purpose, aren't you?"

 

"Oh, you've caught on?" You chuckle at his frustration. About time you get to be the one antagonizing others in this household. "It's nice, it really is."

 

"S-so anyway, the Model 75 Stearman-- that is by Boeing by the way-- it's colloquially known as the Kaydet--" He delicately taps the model in his hand. "It was designed and primarily manufactured to train military pilots in the thirties and forties but there were so many left over after World War II that they ended up selling a bunch on the civilian market," he rambles more enthusiastically than you've seen him talk about anything, probably. "When their engines fail, they tend to fail spectacularly! You should see records of incompetent pilots failing to pull out of dives. The amount of actual head-on collisions with these things reported is astonishing. They're incredibly useful despite being particularly accident-prone. You can mount spray bars and nozzles and such right here," he points to two spots on the lower pair of wings, "and use it to dust crops or put out forest fires."

 

"Or douse people in acid." You still feel like you're trying a little hard to fit in here but it's kind of scary how naturally that thought occurred to you.

 

"I wouldn't want to risk damaging the fuselage over time if the pH was too low." He rubs the plane's midsection, pointing out the area that would probably get sprayed.

 

"Always the party pooper, aren't you, Flug?" You sigh and flop backward before pulling the blanket up to your chin.

 

He stiffens up for a brief moment.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Silence.

 

“You sure?”

 

“P-planes require much more attention and maintenance than cars. That and thorough pre-flight inspection's why there are far fewer aircraft accidents than all other forms of transportation combined," he rambles, distracted.

 

"Tell me more about the sexyplane."

 

"Please don't call it that."

 

"Whatever. The Kaydet. Why the heck does it have so many names anyway?"

 

"So I can make your life difficult," he chortles. His turn to be a little shit, you suppose.

 

"I have an idea. I crash here once in a while and you tell me a bedtime story about planes like that."

 

"That wasn't a bedtime story! It was factual information-- and please don't call it crashing."

 

"You could have told it like a story."

 

He inhales. "You don't appreciate it."

 

"I do too! I just asked for more."

 

"I'll think about it. I have a lot of work and you should sleep if you don't want to get into some sort of disfiguring accident while on the job." He pats your head and returns to his desk, wiping the fingerprints off the paint job before returning the Kaydet to its spot on the shelf.

 

"Okay, okay."

 

\--

 

You wake up after what was probably the greatest night's sleep since moving into this place and stretch, making a mental note to ask Flug about what kind of mattress topper he has. Shuffle past him asleep at his desk. His paper bag is all crumpled against his face. Doesn’t the pressure from sleeping on goggles like that bother him?

 

Looks like he didn't finish his work after all. Maybe you should cover him with the blanket or something. Yeah, he might be chilly. Drape it over him as you walk by and wonder what he just mumbled. Whose turn was it to make the coffee? Whatever, you’ll surprise him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Th-that’s _Doctor_ Flug to you, thank you very much!!


	16. Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Shameless._

 

An entire day without getting bothered by Black Hat. Truly a miracle. Flug ended up having to bring him somewhere so you were left alone with Demencia and 5.0.5. all day. You took a couple of hours to clean up the mess she made in your room. 5.0.5.’s been an excellent assistant and you’re quite pleased to have gotten the chance to be openly affectionate. Best bear. You even managed to get most of your to-do list done. What a day.

 

Alone in your now-clean, now-dry bed, you wish it were as comfortable as Flug’s. Or even maybe smelled like his. You’ve decided you really like his scent. You didn’t really notice it until yesterday’s closet encounter.

 

It’s been too long since you’ve taken the time…

 

_What if you were to encounter Flug in a tight space like that closet again? Hiding. Except you’re hiding for other reasons. The tight squeeze would have you in each other's space again._

 

What would Flug do if he knew where your fingers are headed right now?

 

 _You’d whimper after a startled gasp. You weren’t expecting him. He, however, was expecting you. You’ve fallen into his trap._ _Foolish._

 

White hot arousal shoots through your centre and you squeeze your legs together at the thought. Your clit throbs eagerly as you imagine being trapped in that closet once again. You pay it some special attention.

 

_He’d pin you against the wall with purpose this time, covering your mouth so you can’t scream. No gloves this time. He wants to feel your skin prickle as he silences you and runs his free hand wherever he may please._

 

Pump your fingers and feel the jolts of pleasure shooting through your core thinking about where might go with that hand. Why do you feel so damn ravenous?

 

_Rather than tensing up in fear of passing footsteps, what if he pressed himself against you with purpose, brushing himself against you with lewd intentions; grinding with a heavy breath escaping him?_

 

_You. You’d try to gasp but of course he’d take the opportunity to shove his fingers into your mouth. You’d suck on them because you’re lonely. Depraved._

 

No, you’d suck on them because you have a crush on your awkward supervisor. You really need to come to terms with that.

 

The thought has you absentmindedly bringing one of your own fingers to your mouth and slowly beginning to suckle. Fuck, would he like that? How would he like your lips on him? You’ve seen him blush at your compliments. There’s no way he feels nothing, right?

 

_This supervisor who just so happens to have you pinned and silenced in a small closet. In a house where screams are not out of the ordinary. Who would come for you?_

 

_Would you want them to come for you?_

 

Your breath grows ragged as your fingers work mercilessly and your hips grind at the thought of Flug rutting against you in an enclosed space. _Violating you._

 

_You’d humour him with a whimper-- no you’d probably find yourself grinding back. Your hands would slowly slide up and push his mask up just enough to allow a kiss. Or a bite. He’d probably love to nip you just hard enough to get a squeal._

 

_You’d feel that same heat emanating from his body. The smell of his paper bag and his soap. And the faint scent of sweat. It would smell more of sweat from the both of you this time as you sinfully rut against one another; bodies growing hot._

 

You wonder if he’d leave his hand on your mouth if you were so compliant. Would he remove it if you went for his mask? Would he let you see? You wouldn’t be able to in the dark anyway. _You’d have to rely on your sense of smell, of touch, of taste._

 

_He’d still speak in that barely audible tone._

 

_He might even get carried away and crush you slightly like last time, pressing down on your ribs until you have trouble breathing. Except when you whine he’d only move back enough to allow him space to maneuver your pants. He’d lower them. And himself. Fuck. His tongue-- no he wouldn’t do that. He’d fucking take your pants off and lower his own. He’d be selfish. Why else would he pin you down in a closet without a word? He wouldn’t even be gentle. Selfish speedy thrusting in desperation to get off. He’d use you and be on his way. And then maybe complain that you took too long to bring him his coffee when you had to go clean yourself up--_

 

You fail to stifle a moan as the pressure building boils over in toe-curling release at the thought of your indecent encounter. You take a moment to catch your breath, not wishing to continue on the off chance that Demencia's paying attention. A sigh of relief escapes you as you begin to drift off as the afterglow subsides, too satisfied to feel guilty.

 

\--

 

Morning.

 

You’re not sure if Flug’s back but you decide to pour a second cup of coffee anyway. He meanders into the lab looking exhausted by the way he’s dragging his feet.

 

“Got home late, Doc?”

 

“Mhm. At about two,” he yawns, grabbing his coffee cup and immediately starting his usual hasty morning triage of items on the to-do list. Maybe that’s why he prefers sticky notes. They seem to be easy to sort.

 

“How do you work on so little sleep?”

 

“Are you kidding?” he marvels, “I hadn’t been able to get more than two to three hours a night until you showed up. What time did you go to sleep?”

 

“Probably earlier than that.”

 

“No you were definitely awake when I walked past,” he chuckles.

 

_AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH._

 

You feel your face growing hot as you choke on your coffee. Smooth, idiot.

 

“What happened?” he laughs with relish.

 

“Cut it out, you’re being creepy,” you manage to sputter between coughs.  

 

“I don’t know why you’d call me creepy,” he baits with a shrug. “All I did was walk through the hallway trying to get to bed.” He seems satisfied with his priorities sorted for the day and grabs control panel to begin inputting hatbot commands. “Unless you were doing something that I would be creepy for witnessing...” There’s a mock-innocent tone if you’ve ever heard one.

 

You did this to yourself.

 

And he seems to have caught you.

 

Or maybe you’re reading into it too much.

 

Nope, you’ve definitely outed yourself being overly defensive.

 

Whatever!! It’s not like he knows you were thinking about him the whole time. Stop overthinking!

 

You eye him nervously. He’s dropped it though he’s definitely snickering as he enters a side room.

 

Shrill screams fill the laboratory minutes later. They continue for a good half an hour before Flug emerges, gloves drawn over his sleeves-- a sign that he’s working on something particularly messy.

 

“What the heck? You’re covered in blood!”

 

“Hm?” He sounds like he’s in an excellent mood today. “Just a little testing.”

 

“You’re in a good mood,” you remark.

 

“And you’ve gotten nothing done since I last saw you.” Why does he sound so damn amused?!

 

“I’m working! I’m working! Look! Order forms!”

 

“So high-strung,” he observes, chuckling to himself again as he removes his gloves and changes into a fresh lab coat.

 

“And you have blood on your mask, Doctor. Bottom of the front.”

 

“I’ll change it.” You can imagine he’s probably grinning from ear to ear going by that tone.

 

He exits the lab and a squeal permeates the walls followed by some whimpering and you can tell that Black Hat’s definitely caught him and wiped that grin right off his face.

 

Justice?

 


	17. Sticking Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nice to actually get to work on something together.

A strange partnership has built between you and Flug since Demencia has decided to antagonize you incessantly, asserting dominance. You get it: pecking order. She doesn't have to remind you that she gets to be first in line if Black Hat were to ever ask for a blowjob or something. A crude thought but her lust kind of overpowers her other admiration. Part of you resents the fact that the only opportunity for you to bond with another woman in this household is her and she just so happens to be antagonistic for kicks. Everything she does is so reckless and chaotic. And she kind of needs to shower more often.

 

Bots are down today and there’s a deadline. Flug’s been stressfully troubleshooting all morning but he keeps eyeing the work that needs to get done. He eventually awkwardly hovers behind you, probably unsure of whether to tap you on the shoulder to gain your attention.

 

“What’s up?” you ask without looking up from the document you’re typing up. The _clack clack clack_ of the typewriter is kind of satisfying. It’s almost kind of cool that Black Hat wants as few computers in here as possible.

 

"You don’t suppose... I can get you set up for some tack welding? Ever used a MIG welder?"

 

"Um--"

 

"Of course you haven't," he assumes. "Here, follow me, I'll get you set up. You'll want to use the proper gear." Why did he ask if he was going to assume?

 

He pulls a tremendously heavy leather apron off a rack and hands it to you. You awkwardly put it on as he also dons one. He removes his nitrile gloves, swapping them for leather ones and pulls out a second pair for you before pausing.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"These ones are um..." He holds them up. One of them looks like the pinky's been burnt. "Well, they weren't designed for welding. Thought I ordered another pair at some point." He removes his gloves and hands them to you.

 

"Thanks."

 

"Best if the person with less experience has superior protection, hm?"

 

"You don't know me," you chuckle.

 

The gloves are huge on you. Flug pinches the tip of one of the fingers to gauge the distance between the tip of your finger and the end of the finger hole.

 

"I suppose we'll have to order a smaller pair for you." He digs into his lab coat under the leather apron and pulls out a sticky note pad and jots down a memo before putting on the inferior gloves.

 

"I thought those weren't for welding."

 

"They aren't but I have to teach you how I want this done and I don't want radiation burns-- oh! Speaking of which, never look directly at the arc without adequate personal protective equipment. You'll get the equivalent of a sunburn on your eyeballs. That should be common knowledge, I think."

 

"Do I get a mask?"

 

"We have helmets for that. This one," he holds up a mask as if to hand it to you but pulls back when you reach for it, "is for the plasma cutter. Not welding." Was that a slight chuckle? He seems to be enjoying himself as he toys with you. "Here." He hands you a heavier-looking one with a black screen, "With this helmet you have an electronic filter lens so no need for flipping the mask on and off. No sloppy starts because you moved your torch while nodding and no sore neck at the end of the day."

 

"Right."

 

"G-got it?" He looks nervous.

 

"Yes."

 

"You sure?"

 

"We haven't even started yet."

 

"Making sure."

 

"I'm assuming you're going to um--" You pause.

 

"What?"

 

"Isn't that a fire hazard?" You motion to the paper bag on his head.

 

"Oh. Um..." He grabs a welding mask and puts it on. 

 

“Over the bag, huh?" you laugh. "You’re a huge tease, you know. I’m never going to see your face, am I?”

 

"My usual goggles provide inadequate optical radiation protection for this job.” He’s completely ignored you!! “I can do some silver soldering or other light welding jobs with them but they’re unsuited for heavy duty jobs. Helmet's alright but I'm myopic so wearing glasses underneath is annoying-- Speaking of which, make sure you never wear contact lenses. They can melt from the heat and fuse to your eyeballs."

 

"Yikes."

 

"Alright, we have a highly impatient client waiting on these so let's get these out as quickly and efficiently as possible. This machine can be a little finicky so," he pulls some scrap metal out of a bin, "let's set this up and get you some practise. I want to see you do a good job before you can handle the actual merchandise or the b-boss is not going to be happy." Wow, his voice got really frantic at the end there.

 

"Are you okay?"

 

"Fine. Um. I'm the one accountable so no pressure but also _please don't screw this up._ " He grabs a cable with a clamp on the edge and clamps it to one of the scraps. "Here. You need to ground it or you'll get a little zap now and then. Make sure your contact pads are intact. It's better to clamp it to the work itself rather than the table." He’s showing you the machine and making sure you’re following.

 

"No electrocution here,” you confirm.

 

He gets started showing you exactly the kind of work you need to be doing. Probably scary for most first-timers but this is nothing. Especially compared to your demon of a boss. He lets you begin to get the hang of it and then changes back (you still missed his damn face!!) and resumes bot troubleshooting on the other side of the lab.

 

\--

 

Flug pops in after a good half hour of you practising some of the basics.

 

“How’re the hatbots doing?” you ask.

 

“Garbage. Still down. How’s your work going?” He pauses to inspect your welds before you can respond for yourself. "Decent," he remarks, examining your work. "Try to get it a little cleaner. If you do a sloppy job, we can always grind it off but you're supposed to be saving me time, not the opposite so do your best, okay?"

 

"Will do."

 

"Can you handle the real job?"

 

"I should be alright." You roll your eyes under the mask. He’s really babying you.

 

"Come see me if you have any problems with your or too much spatter buildup. I'll help you clean it out." Ah, that actually sounded caring. It’s nice that he’s recently decided to be amiable to you.

 

"R-right!" Why did you stutter that, dammit?

 

You've got this. You're a boss. Look at how useful you're being. It really helps that you seem to have gained Flug's favour. He's been much nicer to you since you started having conversations. He’s gotten to the point where he actually looks happy to see you, which is admittedly adorable. It’s interesting that he can go from being kind of terrifying to super awkward to endearing-- even if that mean overly babying you sometimes. Still, he doesn’t seem to completely trust you yet. Ugh, now you’re the one being awkward.

 

Do your best.

 


	18. Tryhard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nature VS. Nurture

 

 

You walked into the kitchen and it was… completely overrun with raccoons? Demencia was cackling as she fed them 5.0.5.’s kibble.

 

You’re glad Flug was steps behind you as you’d much rather he deal with that. A truly chaotic encounter involving robots and an explosion later, the of you have managed to chase her away and have sat down for a solid five minutes to take a damn meal break after the beatdown he received. Funny thing: Flug doesn’t offer much protection and when Demencia gets past the robots, it’s pretty much game over.

  


\--

  


"So what _is_ Demencia's job?" you wonder aloud.

 

"She doesn't have a job, per se." Flug is looking down at his smoothie. Smoothies have become a regular thing. It’s easier to make two smoothies than two separate meals. Even though you rarely get to actually stop for food instead of eating as you work, the rare occasion does present itself.

 

"Oh?"

 

"She'd probably be more useful if she had more intelligence." He rubs a sore spot on his arm. She outright threw him across the kitchen when he tried shooing her, screaming about him being a shamefully weak. He may or may not have cried.

 

"Does she do anything at all?"

 

"Groceries, errands... She can kill a man with her bare hands so I wouldn't want to get onto her bad side if I were you.” He’s avoiding eye contact, probably still humiliated that you had to see him flung across the room like a crying fleshy rag doll. “She's loyal and lethal though I’m desperate to get rid of her. Nobody will take her. A dollar a month for a hitman and no one will take her!" he grieves.

 

"You make cool stuff and Demencia's the muscle,” you note. “I need to find some way of fitting in so the boss will cut me some slack." You rub your wrist where Black Hat caught you earlier today, wondering if he’d antagonize you less if you acted more villainous.

 

"He won't go any easier on you."

 

"It's worth a try, right? I can do better at the whole evil thing. Any tips?"

 

"Why would you...?" He stops himself, displeased.

 

“What?”

 

"I still don't understand why you're here."

 

"I needed work and Black Hat decided not to kill me for some reason." You shrug. "Maybe he just realized that more work gets done with more people. There was an ad placed for help. I ended being useful in the commercials. He said that was his plan from the get-go but I need to be doing other stuff in the meantime, right?"

 

“Most genuine villains are too scared to work here and you're obviously not evil,” he judges. “You don't seem to have any particular talent beneficial to the company or the boss himself. You're filler-- I mean-- _I_ like you. No wait, I didn’t mean to-- You’re not _bad!_ B-but that’s not good-- I mean bad??” he stammers. “A-as in bad being good and good being bad-- you know, b-because of the trade-- What I mean is-- I-- you-- um--"

 

"I'm not really evil…” you mumble, deciding to interrupt, sparing him from his gravedigging. “Not like you or Demencia or the boss anyway. I have no idea why he didn't murder me on the spot when I came calling. Is it really worth using me in the commercials?" You’ve decided to avoid eye contact to spare him the embarrassment as his neck is a deep pink at the moment. He seems too flustered to formulate any kind of coherent response.

 

Flug’s seen right through you and you wouldn't be surprised is Black Hat had done so long before he did. Why _is_ the boss even keeping you around? All you do is... clean the place, place orders, supervise loading and unloading, and sometimes assemble things. You did well in that ad though. There’s nothing heinous about your day-to-day activities.

 

"I wouldn't question it-- not to his face anyway.” Flug practically whispers. “He already thinks you're too good to be around here. Th-that’s your selling point though. I highly appreciate the slightly lighter workload to be honest. Almost a full night’s sleep every day since you’ve gotten the hang of your work." He sighs in some sort of blissful relief.

 

"So? The bear’s too good to be around here. Why does Black Hat even keep 5.0.5. around?"

 

"5.0.5. can't die." He shrugs after making the statement.

 

"He's tried to kill him?"

 

 _"At every opportunity. As though he would defend himself."_ His voice is shaking. Wow, you didn't expect Flug to sound so upset by that. He makes it sound like Black Hat tried to skin a live bunny. Then again, you wouldn’t be surprised if Flug tried to skin a live bunny. He seems like the type.

 

"Why won't he let 5.0.5. go out in the wild or something?"

 

"I reiterate: 5.0.5. can’t die. Why would any reasonable villain willingly relinquish the one thing in the world that could possibly be used against him?"

 

"O-oh. Yeah. I see your point."

 

Flug seems to need a moment to recover. He sits in silence. You didn’t mean to strike a nerve. Flug really does seem to love and be genuinely proud of 5.0.5. despite him being a “failure” of sorts. It takes him a while to recover but after a moment he props his head on a hand and turns to you.

 

“So can you help me become more evil?” you ask.

 

“Me?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

"Your questions are silly."

 

The tone of his voice was hard to place just there. It wasn't dismissive or condescending. It was a statement of fact as though he were reciting one of Newton's laws of motion or something. A declaration in a tone you've only once or twice heard from Flug… usually when he’s speaking to 5.0.5.

 

"Pardon me?"

 

He looks up at you like a deer in the headlights.

 

"I mean-- It's not-- I didn't--" He stops himself and pauses for a moment. “I c-can’t make bricks without straw!”

 

“I can make an effort!”

 

"Evil is something that comes naturally. Try keeping 5.0.5. company for a day."

 

“Why?”

 

“A lesson in nature versus nurture.”

 

"I'm um... not sure I want the boss seeing me associate with him if I'm trying to build my evil reputation. I need to try to be more sinister and stuff."

 

"Mmmmm that's an order. I'm technically your supervisor, you know," he gloats.

 

"That's an abuse of power!"

 

"Ohhh?" His voice dips to a dangerously playful tone. "Care to take it up with management?" How can he go from sounding flustered to so dark in a moment? You can't tell if you kind of like it. Okay, you kind of like it. 

 

"Fine. I'll shadow the bear."

  


\--

  


This is the best day you’ve ever had here.

 

5.0.5. is too cute. He finally let you ride on his back. The trick was getting the timing right. You didn't want to get caught by Black Hat so you specifically waited until he was giving a consultation. The clients he gets all creep you out so you’re glad that he’s been explicit about not wanting staff around when hosting. All you had to do was wait until he closed himself up in his office with his client: the perfect opportunity. Everything about 5.0.5. is innocent and perfect. Every time you make eye contact he gets excited and wags his tail. He nuzzles you affectionately. The insides of his ears are the softest. His paw pads smell so nice.

 

He seems excited as he sets up one of the only computers in the place to watch a video.

 

“You recording yourself, 5.0.5.?” You’ve never actually seen him record himself but you vaguely remember Flug mentioning he makes reaction videos.

 

Bear noises.

 

He wraps and arm around you, pulling him in front as he turns on the vid. He’s so warm and snuggly. This is the best therapy anyone could ever ask for.

 

The video the cutest baby goat you’ve ever seen. It bleats adorably and prances about. 5.0.5. is practically crying and you’re having a hard time not squealing too loudly. Goodness.

  


\--

  


You wake up late, remembering wanting to report to Flug but not being quite sure if you ended up doing so. That’s the second time you’ve completely forgotten about Flug when with 5.0.5. He’s an enormous distraction. Rack your brain. When did you even go to sleep? You must have been too exhausted. Squeeze your legs together thinking about the dream you had though. Dammit, this crush of yours is getting out of hand.

 

What a good bear. Nothing could ever change 5.0.5.

 

Hit up your to-do list a little late. The coffee waiting on your desk is already cold but you’re going to drink it anyway and hope that Flug didn’t notice exactly how late you got down.

  



	19. Nosebleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Better uncovered.

 

You hear a crash from down the hall. Maybe Demencia’s finally buried in her mess. Okay, you can’t resist. She had it coming. You need to take a look.

 

You knock and crack her bedroom door open. It smells like she never opens the window and you can’t even see the floor in this place. She’s not even here? This sucks. Okay. That was disappointing.

 

Oh.

 

You head further down the hall and knock on Flug’s door.

 

“Dr. Flug, are you okay in there?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I heard a crash.”

 

“I’b finde.”

 

“You don’t sound fine. Can I come in?”

 

He grumbles audibly.

 

“I’m coming in,” you warn, turning the doorknob.

 

It’s bolted shut.

 

Oh, right.

 

…

 

You wait in silence.

 

“Um. May I come in?”

 

Shuffling.

 

A click.

 

The door opens and you’re greeted by Flug. His hand’s pushed the lower half of his bag up as he nurses an extremely messy nosebleed. The bag he’s wearing looks fresh-- he must have put it on to answer the door.

 

“What the hell happened?” you gasp.

 

“Dond’t bake a big deal,” he mumbles nasally.

 

“You didn’t have to put on a new bag to answer.”

 

 _“Cand I help you?”_ Yikes. Touchy.

 

“I wanted to see if you’re okay.”

 

He removes the cloth.

 

“I’m okay.” Well, he certainly sounds better without the pressure.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Nothing. It’s embarrassing.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I tripped.” He obviously wants you to drop it.

 

“Okay.”

 

…

 

Awkward silence as he dips into his bathroom to grab another cloth, leaving the door open for you to follow if you so choose.

 

“It’s really clean in here,” you comment. He has a bigger bath than you do. You wonder if the rooms were renovated at different times. Your bath looks more modern-- not nearly as deep though.

 

“You already knew I keep my room clean,” he comments, wetting the cloth and groaning audibly when he looks into the mirror and sees a bloodstain on his shirt.

 

“I know. I’ve crashed.”

 

“Please use appropriate vocabulary,” he wheezes, exasperated.

 

“Slept over. You know, Flug, I’ve been here for months and I’ve never seen your face-- Why do you wear that paper bag all the time?"

 

"It’s part of my style!" he defends. “The sandwich bag, the lab coat and the plane crash are constants; the Dr. Flug Slys signature look,” he declares with a tinge of pride.

 

You stare at him for a moment, trying to analyze him. There’s a resentful undertone in his voice as he adds, "--and I'm sure the boss wouldn’t like to see my face either. He’s insulted me numerous times."

 

"He’s called me ugly,” you offer. “I bet it isn't a big deal." Tread lightly with Flug. Always tread lightly with Flug. Some days he’s on and some days he’s off. Though you’re getting better at determining how much stress he’s under as it directly correlates with his mood. “You didn’t put gloves or a lab coat on. I suppose they’re downstairs since it’s after-hours.”

 

"Who knows?" He hums lightly, deciding to ignore you.

 

"Do you always wear the bag?"

 

“Usually; and I change it if it gets damaged.”

 

“Can I see you face?” You lean in with a grin. “I have no idea what you look like and it’s been driving me _insane_.” You lean in slightly.

 

“If I wanted to show you my face, I wouldn’t have put a new bag on before answering the door!” he squawks. “Wh-why do you care, anyway?” His neck’s turning pinker by the second.

 

“Because we’re close-ish? I think.” You try to casually lean backward onto the bathroom counter but your voice pitched up as though it’s a question. You’ve gotten into one another’s personal space a couple of times-- it’s not as though you’re completely alien.

 

“Absolutely not-- and don’t try to beguile me with your cuteness!”

 

“Cute, am I?”

 

He shrinks.

 

“Is your nose broken?”

 

“N-no.”

 

“I suppose I won’t harass you then. I’ll be off to sleep. Glad to know you’re alright.”

 

“Wait!”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Is th-that all?” His body language makes him seem as though he’s expecting something.

 

“If you think so.” Honestly, you thought this would have been more fun of an encounter after he let you in.

 

Silence.

 

…

 

Why’s the silence making you anxious all of the sudden?

 

“I should go,” you mumble.

 

“C-can you grab my glasses from the desk?”

 

“Alright.”

 

You exit the bathroom and fetch them.

 

Flug’s shed the bag and is giving his beet-red face a final proper scrub when you return. He glances sideways at you in suspicious reluctance as you hand him his glasses, which he puts on.

 

“Are you happy now?” he grumbles.

 

He has a bit of an overbite, weakening his chin. His skin’s cratered with acne scars. His nose is tall and long, slightly pointed but not necessary ugly. He pinches the narrow bridge. The glasses make his eyes look smaller than they are but don't do anything to hide the exhaustion-induced dark circles beneath them. He hasn't shaved in a while and whatever beard he has is patchy. At least he’s managed to clean himself up after the nosebleed.

 

"The bag gives you some hat head," you chuckle.

 

He self-consciously ruffles his hair, groaning. His hair's actually pretty thick and the length might not suit him. You conclude that he's not bad-looking at all-- average minus looking tired and overworked. What's a little skin imperfection?

 

Why does he look so anxious? He’s scanning you, desperate for some kind of sign.

 

"You know, you'd look really good with a clean shave," you offer, trying to reassure him.

 

He falters. " _Y_ _-you_ think I'm cute?" His tone's adorably hopeful though his hand’s moved to his neck.

 

"Yeah and that blush isn't a bad look either. Pret-ty cute," you tease, laughing.

  

His voice suddenly flattens. "So what do you want from me?" He’s not looking at you as he places the two towels he was using on the edge of the laundry hamper. It's nice to see an actual expression on his face but you would rather it be something other than frustrated suspicion.

 

"I don't understand. I usually just want some company when I come here. I was concerned be-because of the bang and--"

 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he interrupts, brow knit into a frown at your answer. He removes his glasses and shoves his paper bag back onto his head. It looks extremely stupid before he adds the goggles.

 

"What? Why?"

 

The elastic band of his goggles makes a snapping noise as he re-adjusts himself.

 

"You have an ulterior motive," he accuses, suddenly looking anxious that you’re between him and the exit to the bathroom.

 

“What? What the hell, dude? I just wanted to know what happened and if you were okay.”

 

“I told you, it’s embarrassing!”

 

“And I said it was fine and dropped it.”

 

The two of you stare at one another in tense silence for a moment, unwilling to cede to the other.

 

“I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he admits. “I walked right into the wall because I was tired. I’m an idiot.”

 

“You’re not an idiot. You’re brilliant! You just can’t work under pressure or when you’re tired,” you reassure. “And you don’t have to hide your face from me. You look fine.”

 

“I’m not _hiding_ ,” he squawks. “That’s not the reason I wear it!”

 

“Fine, evil sandwich bag doctor man dude,” you renounce, closing the gap between the two of you. He flinches as your hands slowly reach for the edge of his mask, grazing his reddened neck on their way up. “Not hiding.” He arches his back, bending backward toward the counter in a feeble attempt to put some distance between you as you lift the mask off his face and ruffle his hair before straightening yourself.

 

“C-can I have that back?” he whimpers, seeming to think you’ve confiscated it.

 

“Can I try your goggles on?”

 

“Oh.” He takes a moment to consider. “Um. Sure. If you want.”

 

You exit the bathroom and move to the plane shelf before you put the goggles in front of your eyes. His prescription isn’t as strong as you imagined and the light filtration kind of bugs you in the already dimly lit room. They’re definitely more suited for the bright lab halogens. He follows closely, fretting.

 

“Handy,” you note, “but useless to me.”

 

“Obviously. They’re expensive. And annoying to replace. Please be careful.”

 

“I’m not going to break your goggles, Flug.” You hand them to him. “Can you tell me a bedtime story?” You flop backward onto the foot of his bed.

 

“I think you’re getting a little too comfortable around me,” Flug cautions, collecting the paper bag from you as well. He puts them on.

 

Nope, you’ve decided you hate that look. He’s better without those.

 

“Come here.” You pat the space next to you.

 

“Why?” Amazing how he can go from sounding threatening to terrified in a matter of seconds.

 

“Tell me more about the sexyplane.”

 

“You know,” he begins, aggravated by your choice of words, “they make model kits with engine cowls. That doesn’t make sense at all.” He takes a crossed-legged seat on the bed, facing you.

 

“Do tell. Do tell,” you entertain, sitting up and inching closer.

 

“C-cowling to cover the engines. Th-they um,” he swallows, noticing you’ve inched closer, “it wouldn’t m-make sense to invest in additional parts.”

 

“Hm? Why not?” You’ve decided that it’s adorable when he gets nervous.

 

“They were used as military trainers en masse for allied soldiers with insufficient flight hours to get shipped overseas. We're talking about hundreds of planes succumbing to stress damage-- pilots n-not respecting v-speeds-- not knowing how to land.”

 

“Why’re you so offended?”

 

“By the end of the war they stopped painting the planes altogether and decided, you know what, dope them silver and send them up.”

 

He’s suppressing a yawn.

 

“You’re tired,” you note.

 

“Hang on. Let me finish my thought… Right. Paint. They stopped painting them. These were military trainers used for the allied forces and they were so desperate to ship people out that they were crashing them and replacing parts by the hundreds daily. They looked like patchwork-- yellow with bits of, say, the empennage or an aileron in silver. They’d given up trying to make them look nice. Newly manufactured ones were completely silver.” He’s getting a little worked up. It’s nice to hear him talk about something so passionately instead of going about explaining things in his usual exhausted and overwhelmed tone.

 

“So you’re offended that they sell toys with an extra piece.”

 

“They’re not _toys_ ,” he scoffs, “and the point is that most of them weren’t intended to look fancy. They were disposable.”

 

“So there’s the option to cover or not cover the engine,” you summarize. “What’s the big deal?”

 

“I just explained it. It’s stupid to cowl the engine. They weren’t designed to look good.” He seems to forget that you’ve been closing the distance and leans forward a little, excited. Goodness, he’s being cute. A thought you shouldn't act upon crosses your mind. 

 

“I think I agree, you know.” You try to keep your tone from sounding mischievous as you suppress the urge to kiss him right here and now. How would he react? Pft. You know how he'd probably react.

 

_He's your boss. Don't do it._

 

“Oh?” He perks up even more, seeming to appreciate your acknowledgement.

 

Oh no. You really want to.

 

“Mhm. I think I prefer uncovered.” You lean forward, lift the bottom of his mask, and give him a small kiss. 

 

He makes a strange croaking sound as you break it.

 

“Thanks for the bedtime story,” you chuckle, relishing how red he’s turned.

 

“Y-you’re welcome?” he squeaks.

 

“I’m going back to bed. Hope your nose feels better.”

 

“Th-thank you?”

 

He hastily pulls the bag back down as you slide off the bed and sign a goodbye. A hand’s under the bag where you kissed him.

 

Inhale the second you close the door behind you, hoping that wasn't an enormous mistake. 

 


	20. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've never bothered you before.

_ "Why else would you compliment me? Nobody compliments me. Why are you always doing that? Leave.” _

 

_ Going back to Flug’s room was a bad idea. _

 

_ "What? Sorry for not thinking you're completely disgusting, I guess," you huff. "Wow, I didn't think you were a jerk. Maybe some people are tired and lonely in this hellhole. Sorry for wanting to get to know you and then not thinking you're disgusting! I'll just go back to my room then!"  _

 

_ It’s hard to not feel completely affronted after such a presumptuous statement. Why does your heart hurt as much as it does? Stupid jerk. What the hell? That caught you completely off guard. _

 

_ You have a hard time not slamming both his door and your own behind you as you storm off to your room and flop face first onto your bed with an exasperated groan. Whatever. You kick your shoes and socks off, not even changing into your pyjamas. Oooh, you’re so mad!! Who the hell says something like that? It's one thing to think it, which is also stupid, but another to freaking-- oooh. Wow. Great. Why are you crying? He's the stupid idiot and you’re the one who’s so upset you’re crying? In what universe is that fair? Why would you be this mad? You're going to have to go back to work tomorrow and act all happy and-- whatever!! Grab your blanket and pull it over you aggressively. He isn’t even coming to check on you or apologise. Stupid. So stupid-- _

 

You wake up with tears streaming down your face. Fucking. Great. Deep breath. Cool.

 

The nightmares are something you got used to when you moved in; you haven’t had any very noteworthy ones beyond general unpleasantry and discomfort. Something about this hellhole induces them, disrupting your sleep on a constant albeit generally tolerable basis. That one hurt though; it felt more real than most.

 

How’s Flug going to react when you get down to the lab in…  _ you squint at the alarm clock… _ two and a half hours? 

  
  


\--

  
  


Your turn to make the coffee but it’s already brewing when you get to the kitchen. Maybe you can make an early breakfast. You open the pantry door and step inside. 

 

Flug squeaks, cornered.

 

“Oh, good morning,” you chuckle.

 

Incoherent wheezing as he turns from a shelf. Make a mental note that this pantry would be a good place to duck into if you had to hide from Black Hat.

 

“Are you alright, Flug?”

 

He’s nodding frantically.

 

“D-did yesterday really happen?” He clenches a bag of oats to his chest. Looks like that’s the kind of smoothie he was in the mood for this morning. Funny that he would even ask that.

 

“Uhm.” You pause trying to separate the nightmare from reality. Yes. Yesterday did happen. “Yeah?”

 

“Oh. Uhm,” he begins awkwardly, “alrighty then!” he pipes, giving you a thumbs up. His neck is completely red.

 

You laugh at how awkward he’s being.

 

Uh.

 

“Well! Uhm. I hope that was alright,” you croak, now feeling put on the spot. 

 

“I uhm--” He’s stiffly trying to shimmy past you to get out of the pantry. “I. Well. We can. Um.”

 

Silence as he gets to the door and presses his back to it.

 

Why is there suddenly a pressure in your chest? It feels like a cement block hit the bottom of your stomach.

 

“I-it’s fine! If you um-- I mean-- If you don’t like--”

 

“No! It’s not that,” he interrupts before pausing again. 

 

More silence. 

 

_ Why the hell is this so awkward? _

 

“We don’t have to--” you begin.

 

“N-no wait,” he interrupts. 

 

Silence. 

 

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

 

“P-peachy!”

 

“Alrighty then. I’ll see you downstairs then?”

 

“Right!”

 

That’s the last you see of him all morning.

  
  


\--

 

“Where did you put it, Demencia?!” Flug’s panicked shrieking fills the lab after a few hours. Ah, at least he didn’t disappear.

 

“I didn’t take it! She took it!” Demencia points at you as she scampers past with her usual idiotic grin. It’s kind of cute, to be honest. 

 

“Take what?” you ask, recoiling at the accusation. 

 

Flug skitters in with exasperated body language. 

 

“I didn’t take anything!” you immediately defend, putting the tablet you were taking orders on down. 

 

“Of course you didn’t take it. You’re not an idiot.”

 

“Take what, anyway?”

 

“A tooth.”

 

“Do you need help finding it?”

 

“No, Demencia obviously pocketed it,” he huffs. “Ugh, I needed it for testing!”

 

“You want me to get it back for you?”

 

“Good luck. It’s from the boss. She’ll never let you near it. Wouldn’t be surprised if she keeps it in her undergarments at all times,” he grumbles. “Ugh, he’ll never give me another one.”

 

“What have you been working on?” you ask, trying to change the subject.

 

_ “Well,” _ he begins excitedly, “seeing as it’s probably something only I can pull off, I’ve been attempting to isolate some specific properties from this star jelly-- it’s not particularly glamorous work as it smells terrible and disintegrates when you handle it,” he groans, “but I think I’m onto something.” He always sounds so self-important when you ask about his work. Admittedly, it’s kind of cute. Somehow, you imagine that a tone like Flug’s coming from anyone else would sound insufferable.

 

“Going to harness it and make something spectacular and evil as you tend to?”

 

“If I can,” he hums. Looks like he took the compliment well. It’s interesting how attuned you’ve become to his body language.

 

The phone rings and it’s back to work. It’s kind of stupid that you take orders over the phone, by mail order, online, etc. and still need to manually file everything on paper because the boss is a technophobic fossil who can’t consistently use a computer. If he can give the kind of advice he give, you’d think he’d be smart enough to learn. He probably is, come to think of it. He’s probably just too stubborn and would rather have people do things for him. Probably.

  
  


\--

  
  


_ You turn around and are seized with the iron grip of the hatbot in front of you and scream. _

 

_ "It's not difficult for me to spot discrepancies between statements people make,” Flug reprimands. “It would be extremely foolish to lie to me. This is not an establishment where one can easily get away with dishonesty." His tone is glacial as he grabs your wrist. _

 

_ "Get your hands off me!" _

 

_ "Tell me where you put it!" _

 

_ "I don't have it!" _

 

_ "Where is it?!" His grip on your wrist tightens painfully and you scream. _

 

_ "I don't know! Demencia took it!" _

 

_ "Liar!" His voice raises in pitch significantly in his panic. "What business would I have with it?!" _

 

_ "You tell me!" The Hatbot’s grip is tightening around you, constricting until it becomes more and more difficult to breathe-- _

 

Would it kill you to get a good night’s sleep for once in this damn place? You check the clock. Past three. 

 

Ugh. 

 

You unravel the blanket from around your neck but can’t get back to sleep. Maybe you can grab a snack or something. 

 

Nothing appealing in the kitchen so you head back, noticing some light under the door down the hall.

 

Perhaps a dose of reality will make you feel better. You decide to call.

 

Flug’s wearing a fresh-looking paper bag when he opens the door. 

 

“Can I come in?”

 

He seems hesitant but invites you in nonetheless, sitting at his desk as you lock the door behind you.

 

“I’ve been having nightmares,” you disclose, sitting at the foot of his bed and pulling your knees up.

 

“That’s normal,” he reassures, resuming his work. “Everyone has nightmares in this household.”

 

“I assumed so. They’ve just gotten worse lately. Never bothered me as much before.”

 

"I don’t know how to comfort you." He grouses, frustrated.

 

He must be tired considering what time it is. He’s always snippy when he’s tired. 

 

"I didn't ask for anything," you grumble. "It's cozy in your room and I enjoy company. You're the only person in this house that doesn't go out of your way to hurt me."

 

“So you’ve come for emotional support.”

 

“Fine,” you admit.

 

“I’m not aware of how to help you. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not as proficient socially as I am technically.”

 

“Just relax and hang out with me.”

 

“I’m working,” he dismisses.

 

“You’re always working,” you whine.

 

“Less so since you’ve arrived. Try going days without sleep and then having nightmares during the only two hours of naptime you get. That was the reality. You have it easy. We both have it easy now.”

 

“You still work into the night all the time,” you note.

 

“I have to finish these revisions by morning.” He motions to the stack of drawings on his desk. “If you want to sleep here, you may.”

 

Silence. 

 

You roll sideways, keeping your knees under your chin. 

 

“Thanks.”

 

“D-do you want to use the blanket?” he frets, turning around in his chair.

 

“I’m good.”

 

“Are you sure?” 

 

“You’re not very good at pretending not to care,” you observe. 

 

“I don’t pretend not to care!”

 

“Ah, so you care then?” You uncurl yourself and lie on your front, propping your head up.

 

“Yes, I care,” he mumbles, barely audible. “I’d like it if you stayed.”

 

You pull his blanket over you, rolling into a burrito and appreciating his honesty.

 

“You sound upset,” you note.

 

“Caring is bad-- Good--? Well, not good? As in, not bad?”

 

“You can care about someone and still be evil, Flug. You don’t have to try so hard. I’ve heard the screams. You don’t need to  _ prove how evil you are _ or anything.”

 

“Th-that’s not the point!” he squawks.

 

“It’s alright. You care about 5.0.5. too. That’s good.”

 

“5.0.5. can be a handful,” he chuckles. “Did you...  want to hear about planes?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Frankly, you’re too tired to process anything he blathers on about tonight but it’s nice to fall asleep to his voice as he works. Somethingsomething… radial engines… somethingsomething.

  
  


\--

  
  


You wake up in your blanket burrito, having slept like a log, and glance over at Flug, who’s shed his mask and seems to almost be at the bottom of his stack of papers. 

 

“You didn’t fall asleep this time,” you murmur, half asleep. 

 

He jolts, startled.

 

“Whoops, sorry,” you laugh.

 

He’s looking at you with an almost accusatory expression as though you intentionally surprised him. He looks exhausted, sporting those same dark circles you saw last time but with somehow even more slack to his face. 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Almost done.” He motions to his work.

 

“How do you just keep going?”

 

He motions to the three added empty coffee mugs that definitely weren’t there when you got here. You note an empty plate as well and wonder what he’s been nibbling on.

 

“Ah.”

 

“Your turn, by the way,” he chuckles.

 

“Nuh-uh. It was my turn yesterday but you made the coffee for me,” you provoke.

 

_ “You.”  _ Goodness, it’s nice to see his priceless facial expressions. He seems so aghast.

 

It’s hard not to giggle at the reaction you elicit. “Oh come on, Flug, I’m kidding.”

 

“I’ll get you back,” he threatens. “You’ll see.” 

 

“You look so smug,” you comment.

 

“Do I?” He raises an eyebrow. 

 

“Yes-- and I like seeing your face.” You unroll yourself, pad over to his desk, and give his chin a scratch, noting his shave, before grabbing a couple of empty mugs to lighten his load to the kitchen. 

 

Hopefully things aren’t going to be weird. 

 


	21. Leave, Demencia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No use crying over spilled-- Wait, no, we don't have time for this!

A long day of work and another long evening lined up after your break; there's barely any time for leisure in this household. At least you get to enjoy a few hours here or there to cook and eat though most of the time either you or Flug’s up making some kind of shake or other quick meal. The boss, you've noted, never seems to eat. What up with that? Surely he had to eat.

 

"Hey Flug, have you ever seen the boss eat anything?"

 

"He'll eat once in awhile. Usually raw meat. He can eat anything but prefers things that are still alive. Likes to hear them scream as he tears away.” He’s anxiously stirring his drink.

 

Flug loves smoothies. You suppose the fact that there are no weird textures makes them easier for him to eat than most foods. Why is he such a picky eater anyway? You take a moment to have a seat and sip yours. He put something savoury in it this time. Meal breaks would be better taken in an actual kitchen but you've gradually adapted to the deadlines you're trying to help meet. Only on the rarest occasions do you get to take an actual break.

 

Another thought crosses your mind when you peer over. Ah, rolling chairs are a blessing. _Wheeeee_.

 

"Why are you sliding across the shop?" He doesn't even look away from his draft as you roll up behind him.

 

"To see what you're drawing."

 

"You'll see it when we build it." He sounds almost snarky before he takes another sip.

 

"Do you like smoothies 'cause you can just stick a straw up your bag."

 

"I like smoothies because they're versatile, nutritious, portable, variable, not off-putting in texture, require little prep or cleanup time, and I can’t burn them."

 

"And 'cause you can just stick a straw up your bag."

 

Demencia's voice teases from the ceiling. "He doesn't like eating! I've never seen him eat!"

 

"Leave, Demencia." Flug sounds impatient compared to the way he speaks to you.

 

"Skin and bones! Skin and bones 'cause he never eats anything!"

 

"Leave him alone Demencia, it's nobody's business."

 

"You're gonna look like him if you drink nothing but smoothies," she teases. “He’s a sad little wuss.” she’s cackling.

 

_Inhale._

 

_Exhale._

 

Find your happy place. Maybe she'll go away if you ignore her.

 

Nope, she's landed on the floor and is pinching an annoyed Flug, who's raised his arms defensively but isn't doing much to fight her off.

 

"Look at you! You're so thin, weakling. Bones here, and here, and here, and here--"

 

"Demencia stop it," he gripes. His drink’s been knocked onto the floor by now and you're awkwardly hovering, trying to avoid making the mess worse.

 

"Dem, come on, you have better things to do," you dispute.

 

"I do but this is fun." She's poking his head now, wrinkling the paper with each prod. Why won't he fight her off?

 

You have less patience than Flug for this. "Seriously, cut it out."

 

"Please leave me alone..." Flug whines miserably.

 

"You gonna snap, dweeb?" Poke. "You gonna snap?" Poke. "You gonna snap?" Poke.

 

He curls into a ball, bringing his knees up on the chair. You catch a glimpse of a small amount of hair at his nape when he tucks his head in. He covers the back of his neck with his hands.

 

Turtle mode.

 

Demencia prods a little more but she seems to be getting bored and turns on you.

 

"You! You're less boring. Let me shave your head. You’d look good with a piercing here, and here." She gestures.

 

"Will you leave the doctor alone?"

 

"Don't touch her, Demencia!" Flug frets.

 

"Tall order coming from you, nerd," she spits at Flug. Turning back to you, she seems a little more excited. "I think you'd look good in a more dangerous look. Lemme give you a makeover."

 

"Um..." You desperately need to form an alliance with this woman and now might be a chance to build that relationship. "A-alright."

 

"No, she looks fine. Don’t touch her!" Flug’s stuck his head up to yell at Demencia.

 

"What do you know? You wear the same t-shirts and jeans every day--" She stops in her tracks and you follow her abrupt eye movement, catching the tail end of the boss' coat walk past the door.

 

She bolts in his direction, abandoning you for a more important goal.

 

...

 

"Are you alright?" Your tone is cautious.

 

"I’m fine." He's gotten up and is headed in the direction of the maintenance supply closet. You decide to pick up the glass as he fetches a mop.

 

"It's none of her business," he grumbles. "What a pain. Good thing she has the attention span of a week-old puppy. Except that makes her sound likeable.”

 

"She is such a pain," you agree.

 

"Please don't let her shave your head."

 

"Why?"

 

"You see those _massive chunks_ missing from her ear?"

 

"O-oh."

 

"I’m not sure if she did that cutting her hair but she tends to be brutally reckless-- and you look fine the way you are," he mutters, rinsing the mop. "No need to change a damn thing." Perhaps he's wringing it out a little too enthusiastically.

 

"Thanks."

 

"What?"

 

"I mean, that was a compliment, wasn't it?"

 

He looks at the floor quite intently as he mops the remnants of the smoothie.

 

"Would you like me to make you another one?" you offer.

 

"No thanks. I don't care anymore," he sighs, carting the mop back to the supply cupboard. His body language seems more tense when you start following him.

 

“Are you sure you’re okay? You can talk to me, Flug.”

 

“I haven’t had more than three hours of sleep in the past two days and we’re behind on the project. My neck is killing me and I can’t see straight.”

 

“Why didn’t you just make me work a little later?”

 

“You take care of orders and assembly. Keeping you up won’t accelerate testing, calculations, drawing, planning, configuring-- ugh it’s too much!” He plops himself in his chair in exasperation and resumes his work. “I’m going to have to pull another all-nighter,” he gripes.

 

“When was the last time you’d eaten? Before that smoothie, I mean.”

 

“I don’t know,” he dismisses. It’s amazing how often Flug will forget to eat. He used to keep sticky notes up to remind him. You’ve taken them down since you’re usually the one reminding him of mealtimes now anyway.

 

“I’ll order some food.”

 

“I only eat in my room.”

 

“You’ll take five.”

 

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

 

“I’ll make you another shake then,” you declare. He definitely needs a pick-me-up.

 

“Don’t waste your time.”

 

“Finish mine then. I’ll have a snack later.”

 

He grumbles.

 

“ _Flug_.”

 

“Fine.”

 

He takes the drink you hand to him and finishes it before resuming his drawing.

 

“I don’t know why you have to be so difficult.”

 

“Our boss puts the _dead_ in deadline.”

 

“Can’t you train me to do more?”

 

“You’re helping enough. Let me work.”

 

5.0.5. wanders into the lab, seeming to look for the source of the bickering, and walks over to rest his head on Flug’s lap. Flug gives him a gentle scratch but continues to work, not letting him interrupt him either.

 

Roll your chair back over to your workstation and finish transcribing the day’s orders so you can get on cleanup.

 

 


	22. Knots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hasn't slept in four days.

It’s been another hectic day and Flug still hasn’t had a chance to get some sleep. Flug worked straight into the night though you fell asleep at your desk. 

 

He turns rapidly around and flinches when you get back to the lab after giving 5.0.5. a bath and making a snack. 

 

“What was that?” you ask, having noticed him flinch after turning his head awkwardly. 

 

“Nothing.” His movements are definitely stiff. 

 

“Vanilla. Ice cream and milk. And some protein powder. 0% poison,” you offer, placing a shake next to him. “And coffee,” you add, placing a cup next to that. “Extra strong.”

 

He sighs and inflexibly reaches for the coffee first.

 

“Thank you,’ he sighs in relief, reclining slightly. “I appreciate it.” His voice is hoarse.

 

“I don’t know why you have to be so difficult about me getting you food. You haven’t eaten something solid in the past three days unless you’ve been doing so in secret.” 

 

“N-no, I haven’t. I’m sorry. I don’t work well under pressure. Please don’t take offence.” 

 

“Not working well is one thing but you need to take care of yourself,” you scold.

 

“Mhm.” He’s flipping through calculations, sipping his coffee. He rocks his head back and forth between sips, seemingly trying to ease the stiffness. “This is so good. Thank you.”

 

"You're welcome."

 

It’s calling for you. 

 

You probably shouldn’t. It’s overstepping. 

 

Fuck it. 

 

You lean over the back of his chair and put your hands on his shoulders, feeling him jolt, startled by the contact.

 

“What are you doing? Get off me,” he squeals. 

 

“Shh. Hang on a sec. If I may do you a favour, doctor,” you purr about where his ear should be under that bag as you begin gently kneading his knotted muscles. “You’re extremely tense. If you’d allow me, I’d be more than happy to make your shoulders feel a little better.”

 

He seems extremely conflicted, as though not quite knowing if he should panic or completely melt under your touch. His breathing quickens and he’s not getting any less tense save for the knots you’re working out. 

 

“I don’t know if-- It’s inappropriate to--  _ Someone’ll see us.” _ He weakly pipes. 

 

“I can stop.” You release him and take a step back. He turns around, eyeing you. 

 

Silence as you stand there a little awkwardly, waiting for some kind of communication. 

 

“D-did you want me to go?” Dammit, you've definitely overstepped! You should have taken a damn hint from him completely avoiding the topic of you having kissed him. 

 

More silent staring.

 

He’s trembling slightly.

 

“Are you okay, doctor?” 

 

He gets up, grabs you by the wrist and leads you off into a dim side room, locking the door behind him. 

 

“Please do that again,” he leans in, close, desperate as he whispers. His hand hasn’t left your wrist.

 

“A-alright?” 

 

He sits on a stool and leans forward slightly, crossing his arms on a countertop and leaning his head onto them.

 

“I’m trusting you.” The sound is muffled and makes him sound even more exhausted. 

 

“Okay.”

 

He tenses up the second your hands make contact.

 

“It’s supposed to relax you; a quick massage. Calm down.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

He’s still not getting any less tense. 

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“I’ve never gotten a massage before,” he admits. 

 

“Here. Just let me get some of the worse knots. Do you want to take your lab coat off? It’ll be better.”

 

“No thank you!” He even goes so far as to button the front. 

 

“Okay. Just… um, try to relax a little. Hopefully it’ll help with the soreness.” 

 

He groans slightly as you resume kneading the muscles in his neck. He really is lean. There’s not much to dig into. It’s awkward because of the thickness of his coat collar so you opt to just get under it. 

 

“Good?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“You’re still tense,” you remark.

 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m stressed about the deadline.”

 

“And someone touching you?” you half-joke.

 

He whimpers, defeated. 

 

He’s beginning to tremble again and he hasn’t calmed his breathing. You’re probably causing him more stress than you’re alleviating. 

 

“C-can you please go lower?”

 

You make your way to his mid-back, kneading the worst of the knots out. “Here?” 

 

You’re met with a soft whine of approval and hear the squeak of his gloves as he clenches his fists. 

 

_ “Dr. Flug, please, relax. It’s supposed to be relaxing,” _ you hiss.

 

He whimpers. 

 

“Am I hurting you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Deep, slow breaths.”

 

He’s doing the opposite. You wonder if he’ll be able to calm down at all with the amount of caffeine he’s needed to keep himself awake. 

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

“Please don’t. Not yet.” Wow, that helpless tone sent a pang of arousal through you. Try to discreetly squeeze your legs together and ignore it. 

 

“Lower?” you whisper as you tentatively move downward. His back is completely wrecked. 

 

A weak plea. 

 

“I won’t go for too long if you’re scared of getting caught.” Frankly, you’d prefer to stay alive as well. The last thing you want is for Black Hat to walk in on his employees showing any level of affection. 

 

You slowly make your way back up to pay his shoulders some extra special attention. Hopefully he’ll be moving more normally after this. 

 

“Thank you,” he weakly manages between heavy breaths.

 

You can only imagine the kind of headache he must have with the lack of sleep and proper food. His neck and shoulders might as well be one solid knot.

 

“Just try to take your mind off everything for a minute or two. Let me get the tension out and we’ll be on our way,” you whisper. “Try to relax.” 

 

Your whispering seems to be working. He’s slowly bringing his breathing rate back to normal and beginning to slump as you try to speak of the more banal things you manage, telling him about trivial orders and inventory top-offs.

 

“There we go,” you praise, massaging the stiffer side of his neck. “Nice and calm.” 

 

A few minutes in and soft snores fill the room. 

 

Perhaps you’ve lost track of time.

 

“Flug, wake up,” you coax, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze.

 

“Hm? Nooo.” He’s completely lulled. You’d think he were high.

 

“Come on. Massage is over.”

 

“Nooo.” He reaches backward and grabs whatever he can, that being your leg. You suppose anything is possible in that large of an exhaustion-induced stupor. 

 

“Let’s finish the prototype and get you to bed.” 

 

Well, that panicked spring upward probably undid the last ten minutes of your work. 

 

 


	23. Raccoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not as big a fan as Demencia

Black Hat decided to wake you up at 2AM, demanding order forms you could have sworn you’d given him, and making you search for hours. Flug didn’t even seem surprised when he made his way down to the lab and you were frantically searching, teary-eyed as the boss yelled at you. Eventually, Flug suggested looking in the boss’ office. Black Hat seemed to relish the pain in your eyes when they were found. The glint in his eye made you suspect that he knew they were there all along.  

 

You’ve made your way through the day in a groggy stupor, having not slept for more than three hours. You finally catch enough of a break to actually sit down for dinner after chasing Demencia and her raccoons out of the kitchen with Flug’s help. You yelled at her to come back when she’s ready to use the kitchen properly.

 

Flug seems to notice your glum expression as you sip your smoothie.

 

"How many aerospace engineers does it take to change a lightbulb?" he asks, seeming to want to cheer you up.

 

"Umm, I think--"

 

"None," he interrupts, "it's not rocket science!" He snorts, laughing at his own joke.

 

You stare at him blankly.

 

“B-because aerospace engineers deal with propulsion. Propulsion? Rockets?” he offers weakly.

 

"I hate you," you laugh.

 

"No you don’t." He’s laughing too.

 

"That's your particular brand of sadism, isn't it? The only person who gets to laugh is the one telling the joke. Everyone else dies cringing."

 

"Actually, my particular brand of sadism involves vivisection without a local anaesthetic or medical degree but--"

 

"Ooooh my goodness. Stop,” you interrupt. That’s the last thing you want to hear about when this tired.

 

"Would you like to see the extra room I keep locked? I have a bunny or two in there along with a couple of monsters at the moment. We _had_ some raccoons but we know what happened to those.” He gestures frustratedly at the mess you’ve only half-cleaned. Demencia does have an affinity for raccoons. “You wouldn't have been able to get in since I keep it locked… though locks are a suggestion to Demencia.”

 

"Hahaha, wow, you're actually a terrible person." You wonder what he’s doing to the rabbits.

 

"I’m flattered,” he gushes. Here come those familiar red patches. “You must have heard me get a hero or three in a couple of times. They were quite fun to play with." Oooohkay his voice got sinister for a moment there. “Sometimes subpar villains send us their fired henchman and I get to play around with them as well. We occasionally even intervene with the villains themselves." He practically purred that. Yikes.

 

Awkward laughter. Okay, scared laughter. "Y-you're actually pretty dangerous, aren't you?"

 

"You really think so?" He practically bleats. Why's he leaning in so excitedly?

 

"Makes me not want an enemy out of you, anyway." You shrug and take another sip. Maybe you're becoming desensitized if you're able to bounce back. Nothing like being able to have this kind of casual dinner conversation about cutting people open while they're alive and awake. Top class evil, right here. Look at you go.

 

"I suppose we've been mutually supportive of one another in times of need," he notes, suddenly flat and distant. He’s staring off into nothing, seemingly lost in thought.

 

"Yeah, you're a real pal, Flug. An evil pal who's actually a huge nerd,” you laugh a little nervously. Some kind of creepy evil, anyway. “I'm glad we started talking." You nudge him with your elbow and leave it against him slightly. He still hasn’t said anything about that kiss; probably avoiding the the topic.

 

He stiffens up.

 

"You okay?" Nudge nudge.

 

You can hear him audibly swallow.

 

"Flug. Earth to Dr. Flug." You lean over so that you're practically able to see up his bag. “Wait, sorry. Um. Flug, this is um, Hatsville Tower. Hehehehe.”

 

He laughs nervously.

 

"Ahah, would you... like to watch next time I get someone in?" he offers. That patchy blush on his neck is deepening. You should just make a move. He’s into you. He has to be into you. Are you delusional? Is the blush because he’s uncomfortable? Why the hell won’t he bring up that kiss?

 

"Ummm." You can't tell because of his stupid mask and goggles but his body language is definitely one of someone looking at you expectantly. You also feel pressured to do more evil around here seeing as Black Hat's been eyeing you suspiciously every now and then. Maybe not the bunny but someone who truly deserves to be cut up would do. Um. Shit. You have to say yes, don't you? "S-sure."

 

"Any preferences? Childhood bullies? My list is getting shorter and shorter. I’ve occasionally left my face uncovered when it's been somebody that I used to know. It's satisfying thought not always necessary to make it personal. In fact, if they seem unimportant it will frequently add insult to injury."

 

"Really?"

 

"Um, I--" Flug begins before being interrupted by Demencia’s high cackle.

 

"What are you two doing looking so close?" When did she get on the ceiling? How does Demencia get on the ceiling? Why did she come back? She was just here! “Do you want Black Hat to murder you?”

 

"Taking a dinner break. We left some out for you if you'd like to join us," you offer. You figure it's in your best interest to keep trying to form an alliance with her.

 

She drops onto the table, spilling Flug's drink and snatching yours. You're too exhausted from a lack of sleep to put up much of a fight.

 

"Whooops. Maybe I'll help myself to this then." She sits cross-legged on the table and stirs your drink as Flug stands up. "Don't mind if I do."

 

"Can you at least get your shoes off the table?" he gripes.

 

"Nah." She’s making rude slurping noises. You're glad that you were almost done.

 

"Demencia, we _did_ make you some," you offer.

 

"I think I'll just-- _Whoops._ " She drops your drink to the ground in what _seems_ to be an honest accident, shattering the glass.

 

"Really?" You didn't do anything to deserve this.

 

"Liquid food. Liquid food," she jeers.

 

The remnants of your smoothie burst into flames on the floor and you spring up, knocking your chair backward. You look over to the counter and see that Demencia's drink is ablaze as well.

 

Black Hat's cackles fill the room.

 

"Ah, priceless." He's standing in the doorway, laughing maniacally at the chaos as the three of you try to extinguish the fire.

 

5.0.5. appears in the doorway as well, interest piqued by the commotion. He walks over to the flaming drink on the counter and anxiously hovers, scared of the flames. The faintest adorably fearful whine escapes him.

 

"You stop that immediately!" warns Black Hat.

 

"Boss, it's alright! It isn't-- I mean--" squeaks Flug. He decides to stop himself before Black Hat loses his patience.

 

The grimace on the boss’ face as he eyes you chills you without him having to do much. Sensing fear, he pulls his face back and hisses, filling the air with a putrid stench and dripping in vile green fluid.

 

The shrill scream that escapes you as you bolt to the corner and cower as he approaches seems to deeply satisfy him.

 

You’ve made a mistake.

 

You’ve shown fear.

 

You’ve looked him in the eye.

You blink and he’s in front of you, having grabbed you by the wrist, and suddenly his figure is blurred by your tears as you cower and cry, not knowing what he’ll do to you on a whim.

 

“Please, sir! I’ve been useful,” you beg.

 

“Boss, she’s not worth it,” Flug implores, suddenly trying to wedge himself between you. It’s not too different from stances you’ve seen him adopt when trying to get Black Hat to spare 5.0.5.

 

“Look at her squirm,” Black Hat cackles, breathing on your skin and chilling it. Isn’t breath supposed to be warm?!

 

A full body tremor. Every hair is on end. You’re going to throw up.

 

“Boss, wouldn’t you prefer to look at the progress on the new monster I’ve genetically engineered?” Flug’s grasping at straws here. “It’s highly toxic this time!”

 

Black Hat focuses on Flug, interested. “Let me see it.”

 

“S-sure bossman, it’s right in the lab.”

 

Black Hat releases you, and you stumble and hit the ground trying to distance yourself from him. Meanwhile, Demencia is hovering, silently trying to get Black Hat’s attention. She seems disappointed when he brushes past her so she turns her attention to you.

 

“You’d look good with a tattoo right here,” she notes.

 

“It’s alright. I’m fine. I don’t need anything right now,” you defend. She reaches over and pulls you up, easily overpowering you.

 

You’re not sure if your screams for help go unnoticed or if Flug daren’t leave the boss without an adequate distraction. The screaming and squirming don’t even seem to phase Demencia as she drags you, kicking and screaming, to her room and shoves you onto her unmade bed.

 

“Dem, please, no thanks! I don’t really need anythi--” you squeal as she tears your shirt off and pins you, face down, onto the mattress. Her sheets smell like they haven’t been washed in weeks.

 

“Raccoons are cute, aren’t they?” she chimes, pulling a pen from deep within her tangled hair. She breaks it open.

 

“They are,” you sob, desperate to appease her, “but please--”

 

“Glad you agree.”

 


	24. Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, it looks like it was scrawled on by a child.

 

 

It still hurts days later. You’d better bring it up.

 

“Dr. Flug?” You’re never quite sure if you should be formal or not. He keeps oddly avoiding any conversation about intimacy.

 

“Hm?” Flug’s hard at work assembling a prototype.

 

“Demencia forced a tattoo onto me the other day and it still hurts. I’m having a hard time reaching it and I was wondering if you could take a look since it’s all flared up.”

 

He looks up. “She did _what_ now?”

 

“It’s not very big but she decided to give me a tattoo on my back. I can’t reach it.” You did take a look in the mirror but it’s so poorly done and infected that you’re honestly having a hard time even making out what the image is despite knowing it’s supposed to be a raccoon.

 

“On your back?”

 

“Yeah, look.”

 

He squawks when you take your shirt off and present your back to him.

 

“W-w-well--! It’s definitely a back! And infected! And ugly. I’m sorry-- I didn’t mean-- You’re not ugly! It doesn’t make you ugly-- I was merely noting that the job itself is ugly and-- well-- I mean-- uhm-- can you--? Wait, no, nevermind,” he rambles, flustered. “I’ll get some disinfectant!” He skitters off and you can hear clattering in the distance as he fumbles with lab materials.

 

He reappears with a tray and some items to disinfect you. His lab coat’s buttoned.

 

“A-alright. I’ll um-- clean… it? If that’s alright?” Why does he sound so hesitant?!

 

“Thanks doc.”

 

You intake breath sharply as Flug nervously applies the disinfectant to your burning skin. You can feel the cotton of the applicator getting caught on the scab.

 

“This won’t do at all…” Flug contemplates. “Sit still for a moment, will you?”

 

“Alright,” you whine through clenched teeth. Your skin feels like it’s on fire.

 

He dips back into the side room, returns with another tray, and inhales deeply.

 

“I’m not a medical doctor,” he warns, “but I’m going to try something.”

 

“Um…”

 

You can feel the thinner than usual gloves he’s wearing holding your skin in place as he dabs some liquid near the infected area.

 

“I’m applying a topical anaesthetic so you won’t feel the needle.”

 

“Needle?”

 

“I’ll need to you to trust me.”

 

“I kind of don’t!”

 

“Alternatively, you could keep this ugly scrawl on your back.”

 

“I don’t kno-- _oww!”_

 

“Whoops, my hand slipped,” he chimes, extracting the needle.

 

“You did that on purpose!” you cry.

 

“Hush now,” he chides. “You’re being quite difficult.” Something about his voice is soft and reassuring despite him scolding you.

 

“Take me to a real doctor like when my hand was broken!” you demand.

 

“I’m offended; I am a real doctor.” He mock-sniffs.

 

“You know what I mean! Can you get me to a medical doctor?”

 

“Don’t think the boss will allow that,” he sings, relishing your discomfort. “Do you want this thing off or not?”

 

You whimper, resigned.

 

“The anaesthesia will make the whole thing painless,” he reassures. “I’m also going to give you a tetanus shot.” He reaches for a second syringe and swabs your arm before administering it a lot more delicately than the injection on your back. He didn’t use topical anaesthetic there and you’re beginning to trust him less and less in his inconsistency.

 

“You’re sending me mixed messages, _Doctor._ ”

 

“Rest your head on the desk and let me work,” he dismisses without changing his tone. He still doesn’t seem quite over you having your bare skin exposed to him and still seems tentative in his touch. That or maybe he’s nervous about having no idea what he’s doing.

 

The whole procedure takes no longer than about fifteen minutes of picking and peeling. He’s done and patching you up in a sterile dressing when Demencia saunters in.

 

“No! Flug! What did you do?!” She’s aghast at his tray of bloody cotton and bits of skin and scabs.

 

“Demencia,” Flug snaps, “I don’t know what the hell you did but it was completely infected! It also looked like it was scrawled on by a child! _Honestly._ ” He’s never yelled at you like that and you flinch at the rage and admonition in tone.

 

“It was _nice!_ ” she laments.

 

“She used a handful of sewing needles,” you interject.

 

“You know, it _would_ have been a cleaner job if you stopped squirming and crying,” she scolds. “You’re the one who ruined my raccoon,” she accuses.

 

“Demencia get _out_ of my lab!” Flug demands.

 

“You’re so _boring,_ ” she whines, rolling her eyes and trudging out in frustrated disappointment. Something tells you that Flug yelling at her isn’t the reason she left. Flug can’t ever get her to listen to him.

 

“I got most of the surface layer ink off,” he resumes the comforting tone he’s been using with you, “but the majority of it’s penetrated into the dermis. We’re going to see how this heals and maybe I can get the rest out with a laser. This might scar but we’ll keep an eye on it and see what we can do.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“I’ll have to calibrate one of the lasers in the lab to interact with the specific wavelength of the ink colour but I won’t be able to for at least a couple of weeks. You need to heal first.”

 

“Alright,” you grumble.

 

“It’s going to hurt,” he warns. “I’ll essentially be vaporising the ink.”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“No.” Bite back tears wondering why the hell you chose this life.

 

“Is there something I can do?”

 

“Not really. You’ve done enough for now. Thanks.” It’s difficult to keep your tone friendly because you’re upset but you’re doing your best.

 

5.0.5. peeks into the lab as Flug carries the tray of supplies he used on you back to the side room. He hands you your shirt.

 

“Thanks, 5.0.5.” you sigh. “You’re such a good bear,” you praise.

 

His wet nose touches your cheek and he snorts and sneezes after an inhale.

 

“Ew! Silly bear, nooo,” you laugh and give his ear a scratch.

 

“5.0.5. is good for when you’re in a bad mood.” Flug’s changed back into his usual thicker gloves when he reappears.

 

“He sneezed on me,” you chuckle.

 

“Oh, he could have done worse.” Flug gives 5.0.5. an affectionate pat before returning to his workbench and resuming his work.

 

“I should get back to work, 5.0.5.” You give his chin a scratch.

 

“Take some painkillers and the rest of the night off,” Flug orders without looking up from his prototype, “or go feed 5.0.5. or something. Look useful but take it easy.”

 

Does going to bed count as looking useful?


	25. Rerouted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hurt myself.

 

You’re feeling a little better the morning after Flug fixed up your back. Well, the pain is still present but at least you’re reassured.

 

Checking the orders, you notice he must have restocked that tetanus vial. Time to put it in the fridge-- Wait, you lent your set of keys to Flug after Demencia almost broke his arm prying his set from him and running off. She probably did it to antagonize him; if she wanted to take something, she’d just break into whatever she needed to access.

 

“Dr. Flug?”

 

“Hm?” He’s too engrossed in his work to even look up at you.

 

“Can I have my keys back? We have some deliveries.”

 

“Oh, did that tetanus shot come in? I can administer it now.”

 

Wait, what?

 

“Excuse me? If this is my tetanus shot then what the hell did you inject me with last night?”

 

He finally looks up from his work, nonplussed by your confusion. “Antibiotics?”

 

“Can you _please_ not inject me with random stuff without telling me what it is?!”

 

“I was treating your infection. The oral antibiotics that I ordered are also for you as a single shot won’t suffice.”

 

That doesn’t make you any less mad. At least he’s gentle with the syringe this time.

 

\--

 

End of the workday. You head over to your workstation to give it a quick tidy before heading to bed.

 

A hefty magenta book seems to have found its way onto your desk. There’s a sticky note on the front that reads, “STRAW FOR BRICKS,” in a Flug’s messier scrawl. Funny how his handwriting can differ from the elegant cursive of his signature to the stereotypical rushed doctor’s chicken scratch. You take in the book’s title, chuckling.

 

Theory of Evil: First Steps to be an Evil Mastermind.

 

It’s hard not to smirk at the ways in which Flug throws you a bone now and then.

 

You retire and crack it open in bed. Look at you, taking professional development seriously. Let’s see. A boring foreword by someone probably half as knowledgeable as Flug or Black Hat. Blah. Boring intro. Okay, here we go; Chapter one: Role Models. Every villain has to have a role model. They can strive to rival or surpass them. Choosing someone fictional isn’t as good as someone real. Pick someone notorious like... Napoleon Bonaparte. Wait, scratch Napoleon, it says to not pick someone _too_ evil because you can trigger an uprising.

 

Would he be too evil by the boss’ standards? Both Black Hat and Flug can probably tear Napoleon apart in a case study. They seem to be able to destroy anyone in a case study going by the VHS tapes you’ve unearthed.

 

Black Hat’s the worst there is. You wonder about Flug halfway through the chapter. Maybe he’s still up. Would it be annoying to bother him about something trivial like this late at night? Nah, he loves feeling important.

 

Pad over to Flug’s room and knock.

 

“Come in,” he calls. “It’s unlocked.”

 

“What’s up?” You wonder what he’s hunched over at the small desk.

 

“Found something to add to this,” he informs you, working on a watch-like device.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“I’m working on something similar to both a ray gun and a universal remote control I once made,” he explains. “You wear it like a watch and it can alter the time-space continuum. Actually, not quite… it’s more like a time travel device. That’s always popular. I call it the Timepiece. Pretty cool, I know, I know,” he gloats. “The original it’s based on _mysteriously disappeared,_  leading me to believe the boss probably removed it and sold it to one of our clients-- probably for a fraction of what it was actually worth _because of course he’d never ask about something before doing it,”_ he rants.

 

“Uhm,” you begin, “why don’t you just remake it?”

 

“Did you think I didn’t consider that?” He turns around and you can sense the dirty look from under that paper bag of his. “The materials required to produce many of the items I create are extremely rare _and the boss is constantly underpricing everything,_ ” he dwells.

 

“But it’s not the same as what you’ve used for this, then?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

_“Flug.”_

 

“R-right. Sorry! I swear I’m working on the talking to people thing.”

 

“I know. Just reminding you,” you chuckle. He really has been making an effort. “So why don’t you just do that in the lab?”

 

“Because it’s more or less ready for testing. I wanted to test in here because it’s probably the safest place to appear in this place. The way this one works is more limited because of its size. My estimation is about a maximum of three years and in the same geographical location. Whether that will account for orbit and planetary rotation is something I’ll have to see for myself.”

 

“So you’re going to test it now? Going to go back in time?”

 

“Never go back in time; only forward. It’s impossible to tell what kind of repercussions can occur if you alter even the tiniest thing in the past. The future’s alright because it has no direct effect on this timeline,” he explains. “I do intend to test it now.”

 

“How long should you be gone for?”

 

“Depends on whether I encounter any problems. I don’t intend to stay for much longer than a minute or two but if I’m not back in say… an hour, assume I’m dead,” he jokes.

 

“Um…”

 

“Don’t worry,” he chuckles. “The only person seeing me will be myself. Unless I die in the near future, someone takes my place, and this is no longer my room in a couple of months.”

 

“Take care,” you caution.

 

“Thanks.” He adjusts some settings on the watch he’s wearing and phases out of view.

 

Now to play the waiting game.

 

He’s just gone to see if it works on people. It’s just some testing, right? He’ll come back. It would probably be best if you did something to occupy yourself. Shoot, you didn’t even ask him about his evil influences, which is the reason you came here in the first place. Maybe you could go and take a shower. No, you’re too nervous for that. A read? The book on Flug’s nightstand is too complex. You could go and get your book...

 

Flug suddenly appears running from out of nowhere and slams into you, causing the two of you to hit the floor. His goggles are hanging around his neck and his bag’s torn to shreds. He’s red in the face and breathing heavily.

 

“Oh my goodness, are you okay?” you fret.

 

He looks at you, wide-eyed, and slips when he tries to get up.

 

“Are you?” He seems trying to calm down.

 

“What? I’m fine. I broke my fall. What happened?” you urge. When did you grab his lapels? Just now? You didn’t even notice.

 

“It’s nothing. I’m fine. Nothing happened.” He wheezes. “It was a success. The machine works.”

 

“You have a bruise forming under your eye,” you observe. “Don’t tell me nothing happened.”

 

“I hurt myself. I appeared at an inopportune time and in an awkward position. As with my reappearance here,” he frets, squirming out from your grip and off from on top of you.

 

“That’s it?”

 

He takes a step back and hesitates nervously before extending a hand when you sit up.

 

“It works. The device works. W-we should be celebrating,” he deflects, reaching for a fresh mask after helping you up. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

 

“I’m fine. Do you have ice in here?” You lean down by the small fridge and begin rummaging.

 

“No, get out of there,” Flug shoos, jumpy. “Don’t touch my stuff.”

 

He doesn’t want to talk about it. You shouldn’t pester him.

 

“I-I can go,” you offer. “I just came to ask you something but I can go.” For some reason him being so on edge is giving you secondhand anxiety. What the hell did he see in the future? What the hell happened to him?

 

“No don’t go! I d-don’t-- I mean-- I’m sorry. You came here for a reason.”

 

“I just had a personal question.”

 

He squeaks.

 

“I was reading the first chapter of the book you lent me and I just wanted to know if you had any role models. Evil ones, I mean.”

 

Flug stares at you pointedly and quickly nods upward.

 

Obviously.

 

A tense silence fills the room. That’s all you really came for, isn’t it?

 

“Thanks.” You wish your face wasn’t feeling so hot. It’s gotten awkward again. You thought you were past that but you’re burning with curiosity and still slightly wishing that he hadn’t gotten up from on top of you. He’s covered his face but his neck’s still red. You should say something.

 

You back out of the room awkwardly and don’t feel the tension dissipate as you head back to your room.

  
  
  



	26. Milling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward and greedy.

 

Another day of running around and getting things done until Black Hat decided to make your life living hell. Nothing out of the ordinary, you suppose. You’re used to having to redo work around here but it would have been merciful to at least not then yell at Flug when he tried to give you a quick hand.

 

Seeing his employees collaborate seems to irritate him more than seeing them being productive. Frankly, it almost seems anger him more than good news in the paper, which you’ve noticed you must never allow too frequently.

 

Black Hat has been extremely displeased with you and Flug seeming to enjoy working together. He made sure to impose a serious deadline on two separate tasks after setting your work on fire. He announced that he would be out for the night, seeing as he needs to “see a client” somewhere that required him to vanish into shadows on the spot.

 

According to Flug, who filled you in, Black Hat sometimes travels to entirely other dimensions to provide his services.

 

\--

 

Exhausted, you lie in bed dwelling on the work you lost. You shouldn’t dwell; just finish what you started over before Black Hat gets back tomorrow. It’s his own damn fault if the work is late, right?

 

The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end at the mere thought of telling him to go fuck himself. You daren’t.

 

You lie there for what seems like an eternity, wondering if maybe tomorrow you can get a day’s work done without someone antagonizing you or destroying your work. It’s not fair. He’d rather destruction and misery-induced setbacks than happy employees.

 

You can't sleep. This is the worst.

 

You pad over to Flug's room and meekly knock on the door. It’s just loud enough to be heard if he is awake but probably not loud enough to wake him. He's usually up late, right?

 

...

 

Maybe one more knock.

 

It sounds like he’s behind the door, probably peering through the peephole. The deadbolt clicks, the door opens, and a hand reaches out to swiftly pull you in before Flug shuts the door behind you.

 

You stand face to face with him in some thin pyjamas, dimly backlit by the warm light coming from the lamp on his nightstand.

 

"What brings you here at this time of night?" His tone is low and rushed but his voice sounds groggy as he looks down at you with a sleepy expression. You’re still not used to seeing his face. The lamp on his bedside table is on and a pillow's leaned against the headboard. The book lying on the unmade bed looks heavy in terms of subject matter. How could he read something that complicated so late at night? Does reading mean he finished his project?

 

"I um... I don't know. I couldn't sleep and I know you tend to go to sleep late. I figured I'd just come for some company," you mumble, aware of your hand still in his. He tenses up, seemingly caught off guard when you reciprocate any sort of grip.

 

He’s averting his gaze as he leads you to the foot of the bed. He sits you down before walking up to where he left the book near the headboard, picking it up, and placing it on the nightstand. He takes a seat with his back to the headboard and tosses his second pillow over the distance between you; probably intended as a comforting gesture.

 

"Um. Would you like to... talk about planes?" He self-consciously tugs at his thin pyjamas, looking like he'd rather be under the covers right now. "I'm thinking maybe the Rockwell B-1 Lan--"

 

"Not tonight," you grumble, squeezing the pillow and bringing your knees up. "I'm not in the mood for planes. I just wanted some company."

 

"O-oh. Right." He looks away for a moment. "Sorry." A pregnant pause. "Did you... want to talk about something pertaining to your interests?" He sounds like he's guessing an answer on a multiple choice quiz.

 

You ditch the pillow and crawl up the mattress, closing the distance until you’re practically on top of him. You sit on your knees, taking the rare opportunity to actually look him in the eye. A pang of sadness hits you as you realize how much you would prefer this real human connection over his stupid tinted lenses and paper bag on a daily basis.

 

"Flug, why aren't we allowed to be happy?"

 

"Our employer d-doesn't want people using his things without permission--” he stutters, taken aback by your sudden proximity, “--and probably payment," he adds. "--a-and if that's not the case, he prides himself on control-- a-and suffering,” he stammers. “He's brilliant but evil. We work for a terrible villain," he reminds you, shrinking.

 

“He just wouldn't want us to actually enjoy ourselves working for him," you grouse, feeling tears well in your eyes as your voice cracks.

 

"I'm sorry." He looks troubled; on the verge of a panic attack as he watches your composure slip. "I-I don't know what to do-- I want-- P-please don't cry!" He hold his hands up, helpless, exasperated, backed up against the headboard as you choke back your tears, swallowing hard.

 

"I'm not. I'm not, see?" You wipe your eyes to prevent the overflow and take a deep breath. You're overheated and stressed. The headache that comes with a cry is never fun. Maybe you should go back to bed.

 

He looks at you with an odd expression you can't quite place and mumbles something inaudible. The inflection makes it sound like a question.

 

"Hm?"

 

"I-I asked if it would be alright to um--" He stops himself, losing his nerve.

 

"To what?"

 

He looks conflicted. "No, never mind. It's alright. I--" He jolts, stopping mid-sentence when you have to raise yourself and reach over his crossed legs to give his forearm a rub. He gets strangely quiet.

 

You look back up, locking eyes, and whisper. "It's okay, you know."

 

A pause.

 

He leans forward tentatively, meeting your lips with the initially awkward yet soft brushing of his own. You reciprocate with a sigh of relief, feeling the uneasy atmosphere dissipate. It's cathartic. The tightness in your chest finally eases as you lose yourself in the moment, comforted, appeased. Flug’s hand rises to your cheek and slides behind your ear as he leans in further to properly embrace you though he all too suddenly breaks the kiss.

 

"We shouldn't," he cautions. "We can't do this." His whisper is frantic.

 

"Shhh." You shimmy up into a straddling position and sink into a hug, burying your face in his neck, needing the comfort of human contact. He smells like soap and you can feel a slight dampness in his shaggy hair despite him having probably showered a couple of hours ago.

 

You expected Flug's thin arms to wrap around you stiffly and hesitantly but the motion is surprisingly natural though seemingly starved for affection. Although he only seems comfortable with his hands on your upper back, his grip on you is tight, with a mixture of reassurance and greed. The two of you sit there in a mutual security, listening to each other's breathing in a silence that's comfortable for once.

 

The comfort doesn't last for very long as he comes to a sudden realization. You can feel him tense up again.

 

"I know. We can't. I get it," you grumble.

 

"N-no no. It's um--" He audibly swallows. "Um. You're n-not wearing a bra-- a-and your chest is most definitely pressed against me."

 

"Hm. Yes. It's not healthy to wear bras all the time," you coo, peppering his unshaven jaw with kisses and then leaning back to relish his flushed reaction.

 

He takes a deep breath as he can't seem to decide how long he wants to take in stealing a glance. In a sudden rush of boldness, he leans in again, taking you, pulling you back against him.

 

It's clumsy and a little rushed, as though he's trying to be gentle but he's greedy, taking in every touch as though he can’t believe you exist. You’re not so sure if he’s trying to comfort you anymore or if he’s lost himself. You can feel your breath quicken in the heat of the moment, adrenaline coursing through you at the thought of being found out. It’s either the indecency of fraternizing with your supervisor or his enthusiasm that isn't making you any drier.

 

At least you can tell the feeling is mutual going by the arousal you can feel pressing against you and the quickening of Flug’s breath. You've barely done anything and you can feel the pressure building as you grind into him. How long have you been doing that? He reciprocates the grinding motion, his bulge grazing you through the fabric and getting a soft moan out of you with the friction. Electrifying arousal shoots through you as Flug stifles a moan and you begin to wonder how far the two of you are willing to go with this. Should you feel guilty or--?

 

"No--!! Wait--!!" He practically throws you off him and scrambles to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

 

"Oh nooooo," you laugh.

 

Oh dear. Oops.  _Oops_.

 

"I hear you laughing! Stop laughing!!" He's squawking from the bathroom.

 

"I'm not even sorry," you cackle.

 

"I'm never coming out."

 

" _Flug_."

 

"I'm going to die. You've come to kill me tonight, haven't you?" You hear the shower turning on so you head over to the bathroom door.

 

_So much for that._

 

"Yes, you've found me out. My evil plan to have you cream your pants and die of embarrassment finally revealed," you tease before heading to his desk and taking a seat in his chair to look at his model planes, a little disappointed. This greyish green one's pretty nice. Maybe you'll ask him about this one next time. You wonder what will happen of you nudge the Kaydet two inches to the right. Heheh, let's see.

 

The water turns off and he walks out in a towel, beelining to his paper bags and shoving one on his head, hiding in his shame.

 

"Oh my gosh, for real?"

 

" _I can't believe this,_ " he gripes, rifling through his drawers, grabbing some clean shorts, and locking himself in the bathroom to get dressed.

 

 _Whatever_. Flop onto the foot of his bed and grab the pillow he threw at you earlier. "You know, it's actually quite flattering," you call.

 

"Please stop talking about it-- " He does a double-take, glancing at the shelf when he emerges. Topless is a good look on him, you decide. "Did you touch my planes?"

 

"I nudged your Boeing. Just a little."

 

He turns his head at you.

 

"What, I can't see your frown 'cause you're hiding under your mask. That whole topless with shorts and a paper bag look sure is a sight," you giggle.

 

He pulls his bag off and frowns over-dramatically, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

 

"I used the back of my finger. No fingerprints, I promise." You roll onto your stomach and bend your knees, motioning for him to return. "Come back here."

 

He sighs, adjusts the plane, tosses the bag, grabs a thin white t-shirt from a drawer, and flops down next to you. Too bad your high's more or less gone by now, it would have been nice to get off as well.

 

"Come on, that was nice." You ruffle his hair. Wow, it's so thick. You can't help but grip a handful of the mess. His eyes really do look bigger when he’s not wearing his glasses.

 

"You mean minus the crippling embarrassment?"

 

You shrug. “Meh. It was pretty hot.”

 

"Never thought _that_ would happen with you," he chuckles as you wrap your arm around him and shimmy into a cuddling position.

 

"It's nice."

 

"We can not let anyone know this ever happened," he frets.

 

"I know. I should go to my room," you mumble, sitting up. Truthfully, sleeping here would be more comfortable. Cuddling would be more enjoyable than going back to bed alone.

 

He sits up and reaches for your wrist. "Will you be alright?"

 

"Yeah."

 

He doesn't let go of your wrist when you try to slide off the bed but instead tightens his grip.

 

"What’s up?"

 

"I would like you to come back-- like this, I mean-- so we can-- um--" He swallows before pausing, uneasy.

 

"I might." You simper.

 

"N-no but that's not it. I mean we shouldn't. I want to but we shouldn't!" The hand around your wrist pulls you toward him and he wraps an arm around you, squeezing you to him as he grips a handful of your shirt fabric. The breath he takes is shaky as he wraps his other arm around you. "He'll find out," he murmurs. "You can't keep anything from him."

 

"Why can’t we just... be fucking happy? I should give him a piece of my mind."

 

"You can't."

 

He'll probably kill you if you confront him. Increased sales or not, you know he wouldn't hesitate to kill if you dared question him. The whole thing is fucking stupid; you’re not Black Hat’s property.

 

"Please don't mention this to him," Flug implores.

 

"I'm coming back," you declare. "I don't care. We're not going to be miserable and alone in here. You want us to tiptoe around each other? There's no valid reason for this."

 

He takes a deep breath, deciding to pick his battles.

 

Black Hat won't do anything. He wouldn't kill his employees for fraternizing. That's too wasteful. He wouldn't kill you for trying to leave the place so why would this be worse? Just be subtle and you should be fine, right? Keep your head down.

 

"Did you… want to sleep here? S-seeing as the boss is out and…” he trails off, mumbling inaudibly.

 

"Yeah..."

 

He places a soft kiss on the top of your head and releases you, allowing you to shimmy under the covers. His bed smells nice. Comforting.

 

"Good night," you mumble as he clicks the light off and shimmies in, curling his legs with his back to you. He doesn’t quite seem sure of how to comfortably position himself now that you’re here for the night.

 

"Sweet dreams, Flug." You reach forward and tentatively wrap an arm around his side. “Is this alright?”

 

“Mhm.” He’s still a little tense. “I’m sorry about um, not--”

 

“Shh.”

 

“I can--”

 

“Shhh.”

 

“Right. Did you want me to um, maybe tonight since nobody’s home and we could um-- well not we since I’m done but I can try to erm--” he gulps, “reciprocate if it’s alright.”

 

You bury your face into the back of his neck, taking in the smell of his soap. “Thanks, Flug.” You’re honestly too exhausted after today anyway. “I’m good for now. You owe me one though.”

 

He laughs nervously. “I guess I do,” he marvels.

 

His hand finds yours and he rubs you affectionately as you drift off into a comfortable slumber.

 


	27. Neurochemicals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can always try stimulating your brain.

You wake up with tangled legs, not wanting to get out of bed and deal with Black Hat ruining your day when he gets back at some point. Whose turn was it to make coffee this morning? You grip a handful of Flug’s t-shirt, not yet wanting to leave the warmth.

 

Are you two finally a thing now? Is that what this is?

 

You wrap an arm around his slender midsection and give him a small kiss on the back of the neck. It’s only a couple of minutes early for the alarm.

 

“Flug, wake up,” you murmur into his ear, easing closer.

 

He groans, arching his back in a stretch before leaning into you.

 

“Morning.” His voice is slightly hoarse. Dry air?

 

“Coffee?” You offer.

 

“Nnnnntake a shower. The boss’ll smell us on one another when he gets home,” he groans, rolling over to rest his forehead on yours. He doesn’t quite seem to know where to put his hand.

 

Creepy that Black Hat would smell it.

 

“Alright.”

 

“Don’t let Demencia see you going to your room,” he weakly cautions, rubbing an eye.

 

“Bet she’s not up yet.” You sit up and need to climb over him to get out of the bed since it’s up against the wall.

 

“Presumably.” He gives you a rub and heads to his bathroom as you make your way to the door. He’s trying but failing to mask morning wood and you decide not to act on a sudden mischievous urge. You have no idea how much time you’d have.

 

Quick shower it is.

 

\--

 

The day is going alright when Flug catches your attention between tasks.

 

“What’s up?” You lean back on your stool as you pose the question.

 

“Let me see your back, please.” He points to the area on his back around where your tattoo’s healing.

 

You swivel on your stool and pull your shirt off, exposing the healing area to him.

 

“I think it should have healed enough for me to give it a zap. I’ve calibrated the laser wavelengths to react with the frequency of the ink pigment.” He hands you some pills. “I won’t lie; it’s going to hurt and you’ll need multiple sessions. The painkillers should help so take them and come see me when they kick in.”

 

“Thanks…” you mumble, not looking forward to this. These painkillers aren’t the strong ones.

 

\--

 

“Can you please quit laughing?” you gripe, lying uncomfortably on the table. He hasn’t stopped chuckling since your first flinch.

 

“It’s cute, you know.” He zaps you again. Six short bursts on new areas and you’re intaking breath. He applies a cold pack to your burning skin for a few seconds before resuming. You can feel every burst. “I heard you can actually feel the ink vaporizing. How is it?” he asks excitedly.

 

“I’m going to kill Demen-- _eek!_ ” That was too many at a time. Flug applies the cold pack again and you feel soothed for a moment.

 

“You’re going to be alright,” he soothes. His voice is unusually silky. As excellent as Flug’s bedside manner can be, he does relish flinching and screaming. “Ready?”

 

“As I’ll ever be.” You lock your jaw and brace yourself for a few more zaps before the cold pack.

 

“There you go,” he praises. “Not so bad?”

 

You nod as he mercifully presses the cold pack back onto your skin.

 

“Keep a thin layer of antibiotic cream and  _sterile_ gauze on it for the next three days,” he instructs, removing it and applying some ointment. “It will probably blister but don’t touch it.” He begins bandaging you.

 

“Right.”

 

“No high water pressure when you shower. No picking at the scabs,” he continues. “You may apply cold compresses throughout the day but don’t let it get too wet.”

 

“Gotcha.”

 

“We’ll let it heal and see how many more treatments you need.”

 

Flug definitely steals a glance when you sit up properly to put your shirt back on.

 

“I saw that,” you remark. Is he turning red because he saw or because he got caught?

 

Hopefully you won’t need too many sessions to fully remove it.

 

\--

 

Today would have been a _relatively_ decent day if not for the boss wreaking havoc the second he walked into the lab again. Doesn’t he have clients to deal with-- something, _anything_ better to do?!

 

Finally catching a break, albeit short, you decided to creep up on 5.0.5. for some emotional support. He huffs and groans in delight as you give him a belly rub.

 

A few minutes of petting always makes you feel better.

 

“Who’s a good bear?”

 

“Baw!”

 

“He’s a great bear,” Flug interjects, startling you. When did he get there?

 

5.0.5. pulls you onto him when he senses your tension. You squeal when his paw grazes the burning spot on your back. Flug frets moving 5.0.5.’s paw a little.

 

“Why does 5.0.5. smell like flowers?”

 

“Can’t answer that,” he chuckles. “I have to admit I’m envious of your position. The two of you look comfortable.”

 

“Now that he isn’t touching my tattoo spot and--” You squeal, feeling your throat collapsing as Black Hat enters the room. Panic overtakes you but every muscle in your body’s frozen. You can’t tell if it’s panic-induced or caused by Black Hat.

 

5.0.5. releases a distressed moan as he gets dragged by some invisible force. You’re still in his clenched grip but he rolls slightly, crushing you. Where’s Flug? You can’t breathe. You can’t see. Something’s burning. Is the bear crushing you? Is Black Hat crushing you? Panicked pleading? Flug’s voice. You can’t--

 

\--

 

You wake up in the lab, lying on a slab and overcome with dizziness. You remove the tube going down your throat.

 

Gagging and sputtering.

 

“Dr. Flug?” you call, painfully hoarse.

 

The lab feels unnaturally silent.

 

Fear. You lie in fear wondering what became of everyone.

 

Flug eventually skitters in.

 

“Sorry! Sorry, I was with the boss. I couldn’t come. Are you alright? Can you breathe properly?”

 

You nod, crying. Every sound hurts your throat. Your back needs a cold compress.

 

“Shh. Shh. It’s okay. I needed to monitor your condition as I couldn’t take you to the hospital.”

 

Couldn’t he have put you in your bed and have 5.0.5. babysit you?

 

You begin to say something and your voice cracks.

 

“I wouldn’t exert my voice if I were you. You sustained some trauma to your trachea when the boss constricted your throat earlier.”

 

You whimper.

 

“I’ve administered some painkillers so whatever you feel should be mild. Retire for the rest of the night. Read the book I gave you.”

 

You comply, taking note to not get caught hugging 5.0.5. anymore. Maybe he’ll visit you in your room.

 

\--

 

No matter how much you try to sleep, the combination of physical discomfort and burning fear of the boss is preventing you. Anxiously wandering around the manor at night has become a regular part of your routine at this point. Flug pokes his head out of his room as you’re on your way back to bed.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks.

 

“You know. Hard time sleeping. The usual,” you grumble.

 

“Would you like to come in?” His hand anxiously finds the back of his neck as he poses the question. He hasn’t changed for bed yet but he’s shed his coat and gloves, probably with the intention of staying in his room for the rest of the night.

 

You nod at the invitation and assume your usual position at the foot of his bed. He’s working on something at his desk-- probably catching up on the invoices you didn’t get to process since you were sent upstairs.

 

Not much conversation as he works. He probably doesn’t want you to use your voice.

 

You don’t mean to sigh but you do.

 

“Y-you know, um,” he begins, picking up on your bad mood, “if you’ve had a bad day, y-you can always try stimulating your brain to release neurochemicals in your favour.”

 

You look up at him, crabby. Your tattooed area burns and your throat is killing you.

 

“Wh-what I’m getting at is uh-- I-- you--” His neck is reddening by the second. “I mean-- we can sit within a reasonable proximity of one another and perhaps trigger a production of serotonin and dopamine-- wh-which would likely elevate your mood if you’re feeling upset,” he offers.

 

“Are you offering to cuddle?”

 

“Y-yes?” He looks at you expectantly. “I can finish my work with you if you’d like.” Funny how his voice gets quieter at the end.

 

“Come on over then.”

 

He brings his tablet over and sits next to you before stiffly shimmying over and making subtle contact between the sides of your arms.

 

“That’s your idea of cuddling, Flug?” you laugh.

 

“I-I don’t know!” he squeaks. I just wanted-- I mean I don’t know if you wanted--”

 

“What about yesterday?”

 

“Th-that’s a little impractical for work,” he frets as you drape top half over his lap. He tenses up nervously.

 

“How’s this then?” you ask, turning your head to look up at him.

 

“I-- It’s-- um-- I like this!” He resumes his work after giving you an awkward pat on the shoulder.

 

Uneasy pregnant pause.

 

“How’s your lasered area feeling?” he asks, as though almost desperate to break the silence.

 

“It hurts,” you grumble.

 

“And your neck?”

 

“Also hurts.”

 

Silence.

 

Is he trembling slightly?

 

"D-did you know the propeller was designed as an enormous fan?” Flug begins, trying to sound cheerful. “Its sole purpose is to keep the pilot cool."

 

" _Really?_ " You decide to play along, wondering where he’s going with this despite not really being in the mood for bad comedy.

 

"Y-you can tell because... when it stops working mid-flight, the pilot will be guaranteed to start sweating." He snorts at his own joke.

 

"You're a huge dork," you laugh more at Flug’s terrible sense of humour than the joke itself.

 

"Come on. Tell me you get it, at least." He’s losing his cool.

 

"I get it. It's just not that funny."

 

"Is it because... my jokes _fly right over your head?"_ He's chortling.

 

"Pfft. Okay, fine, that one was good," you laugh. “Dweeb.”

 

He looks down at you, apprehensive.

 

“Don’t worry, in a good way,” you reassure him.

 

He laughs nervously.

 

“Y-you know, if you’re interested in erm…” he trails off, inaudible.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

Despite being draped over his lap, you can’t quite see up his bag from this angle. What you can see of his neck is reddening by the second.

 

“D-don’t crack a grin at me!” he squawks. “It was a serious question!”

 

“I didn’t hear it.”

 

“The boss. Leaves. Once in a while.” It sounds like his jaw is clenched shut. “And. You can spend the night if you’d like.”

 

“I spend the night when the boss is here.”

 

“Yes but he would not catch us in the same bed. He w-was out last night for example.”

 

“So you’re inviting me to sleep with you.”

 

He nods frantically. You can feel his tension and an increase in his slight nervous tremble.

 

“Your timing really sucks, Flug.”

 

“It seemed like something that might… cheer you up?” His voice gets quieter in resignation.

 

“I might consider it… though what’s stopping the boss from finding us like this?”

 

“He stepped out for a bit,” Flug dismisses. “He’s not coming to bother us.”

 

Some more quiet. You try to quell your anxiety. This place has really gotten to you.

 

You decide that you like it in a lot more Flug’s room than in your own. There aren’t any eerie paintings of Black Hat in here so it doesn’t feel like you’re being watched. Maybe it’s the lack of the haunting feeling, maybe it’s the warm temperature and dim lighting.

 

The tension eventually subsides and you feel yourself drifting off.

 

Flug lifts his hand but hesitates for a moment.

 

It takes him a moment but he slowly moves it to your scalp and gives it a tentative rub. You lean into his hand, encouraging him. It seems to boost his confidence.

 

This is nice.

 

\--

 

You wake up haphazardly tucked in and still sore. Flug's asleep at his desk, bag crumpled on his face. You give his shoulders a gentle squeeze to wake him before heading over to your room to get ready for the day.

 

Hopefully today will be better.

 


	28. Paranoid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You owe me one.

You return to the lab after receiving and sorting an order to find Black Hat bent forward and hovering over Flug. They’re reviewing some charts together. Despite being terribly uncanny, something about him is oddly attractive when he’s not wearing his coat and his sleeves are casually rolled up like that. Maybe you think that because he’s not yelling at you or on a destructive rampage for the fun of it for once. In all the months you’ve worked for the organization, you’ve had very few opportunities to actually look at Black Hat without it being because he’s cornered you.

 

That said, your flight instinct’s flared up and you’re immediately tense and scanning the room for hiding spots.

 

“You,” he snaps, probably sensing your fear.

 

“Yes, Mr. Black Hat, sir!” You quickly approach them in response.

 

He snatches your wrist, crushing it, and clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Don’t be a suck-up. I’m not in the mood. Try again.”

 

“Sorry, sir! I mean yes!”

 

He releases you and resumes looking at the screen. You can’t tell if he’s squinting because of the brightness of his vision’s just too bad to see it properly from over Flug’s shoulder.

 

“Sales are down from last month.”

 

“They peaked after the ad. It’s normal to have a smaller cash influx after--”

 

“I care about chaos, not coin, Doctor. More news articles about disarray. I want people tearing off their own skin in despair and agony--”

 

“Not just pushing up daisies in our name,” Flug confirms.

 

“So we need a solution.” Black Hat cracks his neck and unearthly popping sounds the fill the room. Try to rub the goosebumps from your skin. “Marketing. How’s marketing? Production? Anything,” he grasps.

 

“We have another product ready for testfire,” Flug informs him. “Another ad like the last one and it should sell extremely well.”

 

“Is the narrator still alive?”

 

“Shouldn’t have kicked the bucket, last I checked. Hatbots are still bringing food to his cell.”

 

“Use him too. We’re not keeping him alive for nothing.”

 

Did Flug just grumble?

 

“What was that?” Black Hat snaps.

 

“He’s disrespectful, boss,” Flug gripes.

 

“Not his fault you can’t command respect,” Black Hat cracks. “Are we done here?”

 

Flug shrinks a little. “Yes…”

 

“See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

 

“Right…”

 

“We’ll shoot in a couple of days.” Black Hat turns to you. “You. Try to look somewhat presentable.”

 

“Yes, sir. Will do, sir!” you respond out of habit.

 

“Ugh, shut _up_ already,” he groans, firing something at you and causing a sudden pain to rush up your legs from the ground up.

 

He ignores your squeal on his way out.

 

“Are you alright?” Flug asks when Black Hat is out of earshot.

 

“I will be. What the hell?”

 

“Be more casual or he gets annoyed,” Flug warns. “He expects a certain level of familiarity after a while or he’ll feel like his subordinates are too distant and detached. As someone with millenia of experience, he knows that a successful villain needs not only a certain level of loyalty from subordinates but also a level of familiarity. If you’re still distant or too much of a brown-noser, he’ll be suspicious. You need to find a balance,” he coaches.

 

“Really?” You’re taking your shoes off to get a better look at your feet, which are still burning more than the rest of your legs.

 

“I’ve pulled the formality crap when we were filming a video and he clocked me right there on the set. Had to edit it out. It drives him insane. Trust me.”

 

“Flug, what the hell did he do to me?” you whine. Your feet look completely normal but they’re in pain.

 

“Probably something to do with your nervous system. Happened to me before. It’ll be alright in a few hours.”

 

“It hurts though! What the hell?”

 

“Drugs or deal with it.” He pulls out a bottle of painkillers. You suppose it makes sense that he just keeps a bottle on him. “The good ones. Take only one.”

 

You sigh and hold out your hand.

 

\--

 

You’re hard at work and only just coming off your painkillers when Black Hat makes another appearance in the lab. He’s donned his coat and seems to be in search of something.

 

“Can I help you, sir?” you offer despite not really wanting to put yourself in that position.

 

“I’m stepping out and looking to inform Flug that his deadline won’t be changing,” he states matter-of-factly. “Some worshippers are scheduled to be slitting virgin throats in my name tonight,” he states flatly.

 

“Unimpressed, sir?” You couldn’t help yourself.

 

“What’s a little human sacrifice and an orgy? When you’ve been around as I have, it gets hard to stay entertained. A soul or two? I’ve taken hundreds. Sure, they’re acceptable trophies but it’s about the same as conquering. It’s too _easy_ ,” he groans, rummaging through Flug’s papers and deliberately leaving them out of order. “Becomes unbearably boring after a while. Maybe I should set the cult leader on fire,” he chuckles to himself, pocketing a document. He probably has no use for it other than to stress Flug with its absence.

 

“Almost wish I could see the looks on their faces,” you sincerely muse.

 

Black Hat raises a brow, scanning you apprehensively. You suddenly feel the hairs on your neck prickling.

 

“S-sorry.” Your skin’s crawling and you try to suppress a shudder. Why does even having him look at you get your stomach in knots?

 

“Ugh, let him know for me. I trust that you can manage that without failing miserably.”

 

“O-of course, sir!”

 

The fact that he disappears into the shadows without another word or even a change in his expression puts your guard up. The uneasy feeling of being watched is crawling on your back.

 

You get to work putting fixing the papers’ order and are almost done by the time Flug wanders in, reading something on a clipboard.

 

“Hey, the boss was in here to let you know he was stepping out,” you inform him. “He decided to mix these up but I did my best to put them in order.”

 

“Oh, thank you.” There’s an inkling of surprise in his voice.

 

“Figured it’d save you some time. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but he said whatever extension you asked for isn’t happening.”

 

“Of course he’d decline,” Flug gripes.

 

“He also pocketed something. Probably just to piss you off.”

 

“Why wouldn’t he?” The frustration in his voice is evident. “Did you catch what it was?”

 

“No. It was something in this pile though.”

 

He intakes breath, collects something from a completely different pile, and makes his way out.

 

“Thanks,” he calls.

 

\--

 

At least the boss should be out for a while, leaving you to work in peace. You can’t quite shake the heavy feeling of being watched. It’s not as though that’s a new feeling but something about today left you feeling especially uneasy.

 

Even on your way to bed, you catch yourself feeling oddly distressed. A dip into your room and a quick shower and change later, you can’t even bring yourself to get into bed.

 

You anxiously tiptoe up the hall and quickly knock on Flug’s door.

 

Shuffling.

 

More shuffling.

 

The door opens and Flug pokes his head out. He looks comfortable in his pyjamas but the bag he’s wearing is fresh.

 

“Is everything alright?” He seems a little alarmed by how anxiously you knocked.

 

“I’m um-- is it alright if I come in?”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“You know you don’t have to put on a new bag just for me, right?” you comment as he lets you in, “I’ve seen your face, remember?” You can see wet spots forming where the elastic is clamping the bag to his head. His hair must still be wet.

 

“Right. Habit, I suppose.”

 

He makes his way to the bed where he seems to have been working. The sheets are pulled up into a comfortable-looking nest-like structure. In the middle rests a tablet. Flug picks it up as he shimmies back in, resting his back against the headboard.

 

At least he seems relatively at ease when you’re around.

 

“May I?” you ask, gesturing to the foot of the bed.

 

He tosses a pillow and about a third of his fort over. “Of course.”

 

He works in silence for a while as you install yourself.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks after a while. “Seems a little early for one of your little insomnia strolls,” he comments casually.

 

“I didn’t try. Too stressed,” you confide. “I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.”

 

“Oh we’re always being watched,” he chuckles.

 

“Now?” You quickly scan the room, desperately searching for a sign.

 

“Well, almost always. There used to be a large painting of the boss on that wall.” He gestures to a spot on the wallpaper you now notice is significantly less faded. “Don’t think that narcissism is the only reason he has them in every room. Took me almost a day to take it down.”

 

“Gross. Can you help me take the one in my room down at some point?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He seems a little distracted so you adjust your blanket, making yourself comfortable. It’s surprisingly easy to settle down in here. It’s warm and the lighting’s always dim. Cosy. Something about the model planes and the order of this place makes it feel a little less haunted than the rest of the manor. It feels safe.

 

A noise escapes you when you stretch.

 

“You know, the other night you erm, made some interesting attempts at conversation in your sleep right there,” he comments, prompted.

 

You chuckle awkwardly. “ _Great._ What did I say?”

 

“It was more of a moan, actually.”

 

_Extra great._

 

“Oh nooo,” you laugh. “Of _course_. What did I moan like an idiot?”

 

He shrinks and mumbles something inaudible.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Come on, tell me!”

 

“You said, ‘please, Flug’,” he bleats, choking on his own words. A lewd thought crosses your mind as he continues to shrink.

 

“You really are too shy to make a proper move, aren’t you?”

 

His laugh is weak as his hand moves to the back of his neck and he nervously looks up from his work. “Nail on the head.”

 

The deep red patches appearing on his neck make the entire situation too tempting. You shimmy up to him, having decided that you’re comfortable enough, and gently pull his tablet away. Wouldn’t it be nice to see him flustered?

 

“Interesting that you don't seem to be shy about much else though you did extend an invitation for me to stay the night the other day,” you remind, gliding onto him and straddling. Your hand wraps around his wrist and guides it up your shirt as you relish the skin contact.

 

“Sh-should I consider this to be an accepted invitation?” His entire body is tense as your face moves close to his. The scent of his shampoo mixes kind of well with that of paper.

 

You leave his hand on your breast and gently remove his goggles and mask, revealing a completely flushed face.

 

“If the invitation still stands,” you simper. “You owe me one, remember?”

 

He swallows audibly, giving you a tentative squeeze.

 

“Oh my goodness,” he marvels. “Oh my goodness this is actually happening.”  

  
  



	29. Overshoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This poor idiot.

 

Part of you wants to attribute Flug not being a noticeably better kisser than before to nerves.

 

When you communicate an invitation it’s met with greed though something about the way Flug’s hands move on you indicate hesitation. All he’s done throughout your kiss has been to lift your shirt, resting it above your breasts. Perhaps it’s a fear of overstepping. You’re not sure how long you’ve been at it but you’re pulled out of your kiss when you catch a hint of a suppressed whine. Glancing toward the bulge in his pants, you reach down and rub it with your palm, relishing the show as responds by slowly grinding into it. He’s awkwardly asking for more in his body language. You pause for a moment and, emboldened, he glides his hands into your underwear before suddenly freezing.

 

“Flug?”

 

Silence. He’s staring at you in quiet amazement.

 

“Earth to Flug. Say something.”

 

"O-oh my goodness, it's all wet!" he blurts out.

 

"Yes, that's the idea."

 

"No you don't understand-- You're actually wet for me," he marvels. “For me? For real?”

 

"I very much understand and you're ruining the mood with your awkward self-consciousness and disbelief."

 

"Sorry. Sorry."

 

“Pft. Shh. Just relax.” You slide your hand down past the waistband of his pyjamas as you kiss him again but he breaks it and shimmies out from under you.

 

“Wait, wait, hang on,” he frets.

 

He opens a drawer next to the bed and pulls out a condom.

 

“Prepared, are we?” you remark with a raised brow. “Acting all surprised when you knew very well this was a possibility.”

 

“I-I wasn’t sure if--! I didn’t-- I uh--” Wow, it’s adorable how easy it is to fluster him. “It never hurts to be hopeful, does it?”

 

“Your voice got quiet at the end there. You know I’m just teasing you, right?”

 

He whines, looking incredibly nervous having a hard time adjusting it.

 

"Want some help?" you offer, gripping his shaft and slowly unrolling it on him as you slide his pyjamas down a little lower to give yourself some space.

 

"I've got this! I know how to do it--!” You shut him up with a kiss, feeling your own arousal course through you as you stroke him. Hot pangs make you ache and throb as he wines under your ministrations.

 

Fuck, he’s a whiner.

 

"I didn’t imply that you don’t,” you murmur once the kiss is broken. You can feel the heat emanating from his body. Perhaps you should have done this in the right order. His cock bobs once you release it and all you want to do is grind against it.

 

“Hey,” he chuckles, reaching for your wrist and interrupting you, “give me a chance, will you?”

 

Whoops, when did you begin rubbing yourself?

 

“Go for it,” you invite, rocking your hips against him. He graciously accepts by lowering your pyjamas. You shimmy out as he takes his time with his hands on your upper thighs. Take the opportunity to run your clit up and down his shaft, relishing the friction almost as much as the noise of his heavy exhale.

 

“I take it you like that,” you murmur into his ear.

 

He curses.

 

You continue grinding against him until he can no longer hold in his louder whimpering.

 

"Hmm?" you purr?

 

" _Please_." His voice cracks in his desperation.

 

"Oh?"

 

“Properly?” he whines. He’s leaning up against you, yearning fingers digging into your flesh as he fails to hide how deprived of physical affection he is.

 

You gently roll backward and fully ease onto him, feeling his length inside you at long last. “Better?”

 

Flug exhales a deep, shaky breath in response and begins with a few tentative thrusts. You arch your back as you feel a tension build in your core at the sensation. The first few are electrifying though he soon stops with a frustrated expression.

 

"Okay, wait, this is driving me insane," he grumbles. He pulls out and adjusts the condom again, pulling it off, aggravated. He puts on a new one looking irritated.

 

"Better?"

 

"Much."

 

You chuckle.

 

“Please don’t laugh! You’re giving me performance anxiety,” he frets as you close the gap between the two of you again.

 

"Ooh. Come on, relax. Here." You stop to shift your position, turning onto your front and propping your ass in the air. "Try this way."

 

"Oh wow,” he croaks, “that's, um--" He seems to quite appreciate it though he still seems shy about touching you despite the circumstances.

 

You lean backward enough to grab a wrist and gently guide his hand to your thigh. He gives you a tentative squeeze, breathing heavily.

 

“You’re welcome, you know.” You sit up onto your knees and turn just enough to give him a reassuring kiss on the cheek. Your fingers graze the opposite side of his face before you bend over after he fills you again. Arching your back, you meet his motions as he soon finds a steady rhythm.

 

"Wow, I like this position," he gasps. His fingertips indulgently graze upward from your thigh and onto your ass.

 

"Good 'cause it's doing more for me than lying on my back would."

 

"Ahah," he bends over, pressing himself entirely against your back. The soft fabric of his shirt presses against your skin. "Do you like it?" he murmurs into your ear.

 

You utter a small moan of approval.

 

"Y-you like it, for real?"

 

"It's excellent. You're doing fine," you reassure. Honestly, you're having a hard time keeping your voice down at this angle. Every thrust fills you and the soft sounds of your mutual groaning and heavy breathing fill the room.

 

"Ahahah." His laugh is diffident, awkward. You feel one of the hands on your hips lift and look over your shoulder to see that he's nervously moved it, not seeming to know what to do with it anymore.

 

"For real, Flug," you reassure with a groan. He really is hitting you at an excellent angle though his thrusts are becoming faster and sloppy as he struggles to contain himself.

 

His hands move to your hips and he grips you almost too tightly.

 

“Hang on, take it easy!” you whine.

 

"I uhm--! I don't think I can-- I'm sorry--!"

 

"No, wait-- _Don't you dare!"_

 

Your protest flies over his head as he shamefully tries to muffle his own keening. His body trembles as control slips from his grasp and he gasps, finishing.

 

"Haaah, okay, wow," he huffs. "That's-- ahahah-- ooh wow."

 

" _Cool_." It's hard to not sound irritated when that took all of five minutes and you are nowhere near done. Dammit.

 

"Uhm." His chest is heaving and he needs a moment to wipe his brow before pulling out. "S-sorry! I'm sorry! Give me a sec."

 

"Don't leave me hanging," you whine, rolling onto your back and spreading your legs for him.

 

"I'm not-- I'm not!" He takes a quick moment to remove his condom.

 

You watch wistfully as his cock bobs, glistening and still slightly erect as he re-positions himself. Dammit.

 

"Let's see now..." He pushes one of your knees up and fumbles around, on a mission. His chest is still heaving.

 

“Here. Like this.” You take a moment to rub yourself in front of him, showing him how you like it done.

 

He takes a moment to ease into a rhythmic motion following your demonstration and you’re soon feeling the tightness in your gut remanifest.

 

"Ah, there we go." He grins slightly, pleased with himself as you rock your hips.

 

Fuck, you had a feeling he’d be terrible but this isn’t underwhelming after all. He’s a surprisingly quick study when it comes to some things.

 

"Congratulations," you joke.

 

Awkward breathless laughter.

 

"No, that doesn't mean stop moving; I’m not done," you huff in mock impatience as he laughs. Use the foot of your bent leg to playfully tap him on the side of the face and relish the immediate change in his expression. He’s so damn cute.

 

"Hahahaah, right." That was somewhere between a gasp and a cough. He pushes your foot away, clearly still coming down from his own high. He looks down and seems to have almost immediately forgotten how he was rubbing you.

 

"Here, move your hand like this," you coach him, once again guiding his hand in a motion you would normally use to pleasure yourself.

 

The poor thing’s so nervous.

 

"So can I um-- Is it alright to do both?" He inserts a finger while maintaining the movement on your clit.

 

"You’re more than invited," you coo, lifting your hips into a position that will make it easier.

 

"Hah, alright." He inserts another finger.

  
  
“Try a curling motion,” you suggest.

  
  
He improves after a little instruction though it’s taking him too long to get you anywhere.

 

"Come on, my high’s almost gone," you whine.

 

"Stop, don't say that! You’re still giving me performance anxiety!" He still hasn't caught his breath.

 

"Boo, you're losing me."

 

"No, stop talking." He shimmies upward and thumbs at your lips before inserting it in your mouth, causing you to hum delightedly. It’s nice to see him emboldened. Aw, the priceless look he gives you when you run your tongue over it and suck is delightful. It was definitely some kind of pleasantly surprised expression. You'll have to do that elsewhere.

 

"You're cute when you're assertive," you sass as he removes his thumb from your mouth.

 

He’s still covered in that patchy redness from moments ago but that comment definitely deepened the fading blush. You can feel the tension grip him momentarily. He’s so receptive to praise, it’s difficult to resist seeing how far you can take it. His reaction is really heightening his motions between your legs.

 

You moan a little too loudly and he abruptly clamps a hand over your mouth.

 

" _Shh_ ," he hisses. "We'll be dead if we're found like this. Demencia’s still around."

 

You whimper, bucking your hips, wishing he wasn't already done. The whimper makes his grip on your face tighten as he cracks a mischievous smirk.

 

“You’re so cute when you whine,” he gushes. “You know, you have a beautiful scream. I’d love to hear it under better circumstances,” he whispers longingly, “but we have to be discreet in this house.”

 

He slowly removes his hand to replace it with a soft brushing of his lips before moving to a deeper kiss. He takes his time, less greedy than before. You take in his body heat and still-ragged breathing as an excellent complement to the motions between your legs as he finally builds you up to an undulating release. It’s hard not to crush his hands as you come.

 

“Oh my goodness, I did it,” he marvels. “A-are you okay?”

 

“That was nice,” you wheeze.

 

You need a moment.

 

“Y-you should um, a-always pee after sex, I read,” he offers after a few minutes.  

 

“Oh my goodness, Flug, give me a moment,” you gasp, not sure if you should laugh.

 

“Right! Sorry.”

 

He sits there and you can’t help but chuckle a little. This poor idiot is so great.

 

“Hey, at least you managed to get me off.”

 

He wheezes, laughing a little too. “I’m a genius! Come on, give me some credit!”

 

“Fine. Credit given.”

 

“W-was I really alright?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“ _Yes._ ”

 

“Sleeping over?” He looks hopeful.

 

“Yeah. Let me clean up.”

 

“Feel free.” He motions to his bathroom.

 

It’s always so clean in here. Flug’s room is the only space in this house where he gets to keep things exactly the way he likes them. It makes you wonder if you should be putting more effort into cleaning your space.

 

He’s practically passed out by the time you get back. That didn’t take him long at all. You crawl over and shimmy in next to him. His arm wraps around you and pulls you closer. You bury your face in the crook of his neck and take in his light scent. Try to sleep like that for a few minutes before giving up and rolling over in discomfort. His body follows yours in an attempt to spoon you but he gives up, not knowing what to do with his other arm. He settles for rolling over and keeping his back flush with yours, not seeming to want to break the physical contact. Eventually, the two of you drift off, relishing the warmth of each other’s bodies.

 

 

 


	30. You Can Always Go Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things are better the second time around.

 

You’re woken up in the middle of the night by Flug’s boner pressing up against you. He must have rolled over at some point and seems to be _ever so slightly_ grinding against you in his sleep.

 

You groan.

 

It’s too tempting.

 

You arch your back and back your butt up against him, feeling the friction through your pyjamas. The grinding’s agonizingly slow and subtle. He’s barely moving at all but if you arch your back just a little more… No, that’s not working.

 

Roll over.

 

Is he really asleep?

 

“Flug?” you rasp, half asleep.

 

No response. More slow grinding. In fact, he might be snoring slightly; he’s definitely asleep.

 

Despite being only half-conscious, you’re extremely tempted.

 

You slide your hand down and feel him twitching through the thin fabric of his pyjamas.

 

He whines a little in his sleep at the pressure.

 

“Fuck, Flug, you really have to make that noise?”

 

The movement is so subtle and unrushed compared to when he was awake earlier but there’s no mistaking what he’s doing.

 

You bury your face in his neck and intake his scent as he continues to slowly grind against your palm.

 

What if you applied a little more pressure and met his motions with your hand?

 

Fuck. Your other hand finds its way down your your underwear and you begin mimicking the motions. Lie there, rubbing yourself as he ruts against you. You wonder if he’s dreaming. Moan a little. Give him a show if he’s secretly awake. You can feel a small amount of wetness through his fabric. Exhale. Fuck. Keep rubbing. Your underwear and fingers are soaked. You want to get him off so badly. Come in your pants, Flug. Do it.

 

Or not. Maybe you can also see how much you can get him riled up in his sleep.

 

A few rubs here and a wait. A few rubs there; some more waiting. Your motions on yourself are constant and you can feel yourself gradually losing control. You wonder if he’d mind. You wonder if-- whoops, too late. Impossible to try not to wake him as you reach your own climax.

 

You look over, panting.

 

He’s still asleep? What the hell? Keep palming at him, feeling his entire length pulsating under you. Fuck. Run your palm up and down over the fabric for a few more minutes and it doesn’t take much longer before he’s coming undone, ruining his pyjamas.

 

Should you wake him?

 

Nah, roll over. You’re too tired.

 

\--

 

The sounds of Flug showering wake you up.

 

It’s a little past three in the morning. Looks like Flug woke up and probably panicked.

 

You knock on the bathroom door.

 

“Flug?”

 

“Y-yes?” he pipes.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Felt the need to shower.”

 

_You wonder why. Tee-hee._

 

“Can I come in?”

 

“Sure?”

 

“In the middle of the night?” you ask, closing the door behind you.

 

“S-sometimes!” He laughs awkwardly, not telling you what he probably doesn’t know you already know.

 

You drop your clothes to the floor and startle him a little when you meet him in the shower.

 

“Hi there,” you coo, pressing your chest against his back. You reach around for him. He’s already hard.

 

“Oh! I didn’t think you’d-- H-hello!”

 

“Didn’t invite me to the party, now?”

 

“You were asleep a-and it’s still early and--”

 

“Without me, hm?” you ask, feeling him arch his back as you move your hand along his shaft. He fails to suppress a whine.

 

“W-well, I didn’t want to wake you and I--” you give his neck a gentle bite and suck on it a little, “oh _please_ keep doing that.” His reaches backward to grip onto your hips.

 

You look up from his neck when you hear another whine. Streams shoot from him as he finishes in your hand.

 

“So quick,” you chide.

 

“I was working before you came in!” he admits defensively, raising his hands in front of his chest.

 

“Mhm.” You give his neck another kiss.

 

“I mean-- It’s-- I didn’t want to wake you.”

 

“That’s both considerate and inconsiderate,” you murmur into his ear, bringing your hands up to his collarbones and dragging them along his slender form as you let them slide back down.

 

He turns around gives your wet body a proper look.

 

“Wow,” he breathes.

 

You longingly eye his half-erection. Why did he have to finish so damn soon?

 

He’s still staring.

 

“What?” you ask.

 

“I just-- I can’t get over the fact that you’re real.”

 

“I’m just a figment of your imagination and also, I’m ditching you,” you joke, hopping out of the shower.

 

“No, wait! You’ll get water everywhere!”

 

Too late. You steal his towel, grab your clothes, and head back to bed.

 

“Wait, that’s my last towel!”

 

Tee-hee. Stranded. Too bad.

 

\--

 

Flug’s body presses up against you, waking you when he gets to bed. You had just drifted off too…

 

“You owe me one again,” you chuckle semi-audibly.

 

“W-will do!”

 

He seems to notice that you neglected getting dressed. Fingertips brush against your bare skin. Arch your back in a half-stretch before backing into him.

 

He murmurs something you’re too asleep to catch.

 

“What was that?”

 

He seems to have lost his nerve.

 

“Come on, Flug.” You reach backward and grip his thigh, coaxing.

 

“D-do you think that maybe I could tie you up sometime?"

 

“If you’re nice,” you mumble, rolling over to face him.

 

You swallow as an especially dark look flashes in his eyes for a moment. Maaaybe you don't quite trust him enough for that at this point in time.

 

"I-If you're nice," you reiterate.

 

"Define 'nice' for me," he coos, absentmindedly tracing shapes on your skin. He’s no longer making eye contact.

 

"Not looking dangerous bordering on creepy when I offer that, for starters." You pinch his cheek and he winces.

 

"I don't know if I should be offended or flattered." His hand moves to your neck and he rubs you affectionately with his thumb, resting his forehead on yours.

 

“I might not entirely trust you.” You poke him in the chest. “Though you get points for being snuggly and shy."

 

He laughs awkwardly.

 

\--

 

Opening your eyes is the last thing you want to do right now. There's a thin arm wrapped around you. Body heat is keeping you warm under the soft bedding in the chilly morning air. Can you stay here forever? What if you didn't have to go downstairs and work around people who will probably antagonize or cause you physical pain at least once today? You groan and snuggle backward into your tiny big spoon, who's mumbling incomprehensibly in his sleep, face buried in your neck. Goodness, that’s adorable. How long until that alarm goes off, signalling you to leave your protective cocoon of comfort and warmth to begrudgingly get your ass to the kitchen for some breakfast?

 

You snuggle backward more aggressively in protest of the very thought and Flug stirs. Oops. Hey, at least his grip's tightening on you. He buries his face deeper into your neck and places a soft kiss where his face lands before allowing a sigh to escape.

 

You open your eyes and roll over to face him. "Good morning," you laugh.

 

"What? Why're you laughing?"

 

"You have the most wild bedhead." You run your fingers through his shaggy hair, evening it out.

 

Awkward laughter followed by an uneasy silence as his hands sheepishly move to help you.

 

"It's not bad or anything. It's fine."

 

He grumbles in obvious self-consciousness and you decide to use the hand that's already in his hair to undo what you've done, messing his hair up more than it was to begin with.

 

"What? Whyyy are you doing that," he squawks.

 

"Because it's cute."

 

"Nooo."

 

"Yesssss." You playfully roll on top of him and place a kiss on his cheek as he laughs, stealing a glance at your breasts. "Hmm. What's this?" You palm at his dick through the bedding and his face reddens almost immediately.

 

"I mean, it's morning! That's completely normal," he practically bleats, abashed.

 

"I know. I know. You're really easy to tease, you know that?"

 

He tilts his head back, avoiding eye contact, completely beside himself.

 

"You're not going anywhere, mister. I've got you pinned." You palm at his boner again, feeling it twitch.

 

"No you haven't."

 

You exclaim, having not been expecting him to catch you off guard and roll the two of you so as to be on top.

 

You both laugh and he lowers his forehead onto yours.

 

"Alright. Alright. You've got me beat," you concede, pretty sure that you could overpower him if you tried.

 

"Now,” he begins, “if I'm not mistaken it's only appropriate that--!" You both squeal and jump, startled by the alarm clock signalling the two of you to haul your asses out of bed and get to work.

 

"Nooooo," you whine, catching your breath. "Can we not?"

 

"I hate this," he gripes.

 

"Flug, hit snooze."

 

"We'll be found out of we do anything now. Demencia might’ve heard that."

 

"Gaaaah." You grab a pillow and cover your face with it. She sleeps in halfway through the day anyway. Why would she even care?

 

He squirms out and silences the alarm. "Completely undue, wasn't it?"

 

"Totally killed the mood with us jumping like idiots."

 

"I hope you've learned that those kinds of flight reactions will keep you alive in this house," he chuckles.

 

"I know, I know," you whine. "Rain cheque?"

 

Mutual grumbling. It was almost a perfect morning. Almost.

 

He shuffles over to his desk and pulls his usual head covering on. He peeks out the door and makes sure the coast is clear as you pick your pyjamas up from the floor and pull them on.

 

"Coast is clear," he declares.

 

You eye his boner. Why is he turning away as though trying to hide? It's been inside you; you know what it looks like.

 

"Alright," you surrender. "See you downstairs."

 

That kind of sucked.

 

It’s probably best to shower thoroughly. You wouldn’t want to advertise that you spent the night with Flug after Black Hat’s demonstrated an obvious disdain for any kind of affection.

 

You inhale deeply, taking in the shower steam. Was that more than a casual couple of fucks? Something tells you that Flug doesn't do casual sex. Then again, it's not as though he's gotten any before to begin with. There’s no way. Would he if given the opportunity?

 

So. What does this mean for your relationship as coworkers? Are you a thing? He never said anything after the first time you kissed him. He never said anything after he kissed you back and you fooled around a little. It’s probably best to not rush into that conversation. If he hasn’t said anything then maybe he’s too nervous to talk about it-- or maybe he isn’t ready.

 

You do wish that Flug would surprise you in the shower the way you did last night.

 

Oh well. You’ll make the coffee this morning if you can beat him downstairs. The conversation will happen when it happens.

 

The morning routine goes as usual minus being groggy from a lack of sleep.

 

Flug leans back, hand in a coat pocket as he sips his morning coffee through his straw. Something about how slow and deliberate it is makes you wonder if he otherwise ever really takes the time to savour it.

 

He's zoning out, staring into nothingness. It's nothing like his usual frantic morning task triage.

 

"Flug, are you alright?"

 

"Hm? Say again?"

 

"Are you alright?"

 

"Me?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Oh. Yeah. I'm alright."

 

"You sure?"

 

"Mhm..." He pauses for a moment. "We should have breakfast," he muses, "a real one."

 

"Okay?"

 

He looks you in the eye as he places the order.

 

"Why did you order pancakes when we have pancake mix?"

 

"It comes with fruit and custard and they do that thing where they dust them with powdered sugar and it feels special."

 

"Fair."

 

“Aren’t you in the mood for something more special once in a while?”

 

“I guess. You’re in a good mood,” you point out.

 

He hums delightedly and continues to work until the food arrives.

 

It really does feel special. The pancakes are fluffy and go well with the fruit. Even though they came in take-out containers, they look more appealing than the stuff you’d hurriedly make. You sit at a workbench savouring the meal Flug handed you before he disappeared. 5.0.5. sits around begging until you share some of your strawberries with him. Turns out he really loves strawberries. The sound of Demencia hurtling down the stairs and out of the manor has you wondering…

 

A thought occurs to you. You peer out of the lab, curious, and turn back to see 5.0.5. devouring your unattended leftovers.

 

“Pft. Fine,” you chuckle as he licks syrup off the styrofoam.

 

You head upstairs and knock on Flug’s bedroom door.

 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat before,” you remark when he answers, fork in hand. Of course he was holed up in here.

 

“Oh?” He hasn’t removed his mask or opened the door all the way.

 

“Never.” You grin.

 

“Huh.” He leans on his back foot.

 

“What’s up? Are you okay?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Silence.

 

“Are you sure?” you ask.

 

“I don’t like eating in front of people.”

 

“I noticed. Are you done?”

 

He hesitates, looking inside before admitting you.  “More or less. Come in.”

 

The take-out container’s only half empty on his desk when you’re let in. You make your way to sit on the foot of his bed out of habit.

 

“You sure you don’t want to finish eating? I have work to do so I can leave if you want. I was just checking up on--”

  
  
“I’m alright.” He closes the container and shoves it in his fridge.

 

Somehow you still feel guilty. Would he have finished it if you hadn’t come upstairs?

 

“I should go,” you say hurriedly as you get back up.

 

Flug grabs your wrist. “Wait.”

 

You’re stopped in your tracks. Eyes wide, you don’t know why you’re suddenly breathing so rapidly.

 

“It’s okay, I’ll go. I don’t want you to stop because of me,” you fret. “I should go and finish what I was doing before the boss gets home and ruins everything and--”

 

“It’s alright. I wasn’t going to finish it,” he insists. “We have to get back anyway.”

 

“Right.”

 

“D-did you like it?” He releases you.

 

“It was delicious.”

 

He sits at his desk silently, not really looking in your direction.

 

“Can I go?”

 

“Yes but if the boss is around-- no nevermind-- If we’re at all in the open, don’t speak to me with any kind of familiarity,” he cautions. “I d-don’t want anyone to know that we um--” he cuts himself off.

 

“That we fucked?”

 

He turns his head toward you almost expectantly.

 

He’s just… staring at you.

 

…

 

It’s making you a little uncomfortable. Did you say something wrong?

 

“I’ll um, do my best,” you stammer.

 

“When you go down, do something that will make it look like you’ve been productive all morning.”

 

“Hey, I have been productive all morning. I’ve taken like… fifteen minutes.”

 

“If the boss asks why this place smells like you-- and he probably wouldn’t because he has better things to do with his time-- always tell him that I’m lending you books and teaching you how to not be a sub-par villain.”

 

“The best teaching the best.”

 

His neck’s getting redder by the second.

 

“Y-yes. The best!” He’s beside himself. “I’m the best!”

 

“Of course,” you entertain. “I’ll be on my way then.”

 

\--

 

5.0.5. needs a bath and you’re grateful for the opportunity to go outside and give him a scrub. Being inside when the boss gets home is never fun. Being anywhere near the boss is never fun.

 

You wonder how much he knows and, if so, how much he’s willing to tolerate.

 

“Let’s go, bear. Bath time!”

 

It would probably be best to not push your luck.

 

5.0.5. perks up with a happy, “Baw!”

 

On the other hand, it’s nice to have companionship in this hellhole.

 

You grab you bucket of supplies and turn the water on once outside. 5.0.5. tries snapping at the water stream a little. It’s easy to forget that he’s an animal sometimes. You give him a spray and squeeze on some shampoo, lost in thought.

 

Flug provides that emotional support to an extent. You wonder when the next time you’ll get to do that will be. It doesn’t have to be about sex. It’s nice to just… get that human contact--

 

“Baw!” 5.0.5. is shoving his muzzle under your hand. You must have stopped scrubbing.

 

“What, bear? You want some more?” you chuckle, giving him a harder scrub. The smell of shampoo mixes with that of wet bear and soon overpowers it. 5.0.5. usually has a gentle floral undertone anyway.

 

It’s nice.

 

Although the bits of happiness in this place are few and far between, it’s nice to really take the time to appreciate the little things.

 

5.0.5. shakes off and pulls you out of your pondering as you get completely drenched.

 

Looks like you’ll need to change.

 

**Author's Note:**

> We welcome and encourage your comments!
> 
> ALSO, feel free to holler at us on [tumblr](https://shitty-dinner.tumblr.com/)!  
> We're three writers (Green, Orange, and Pink) but Pink runs the tumblr so you'll only be talking to one of us.  
> (Please be nice to her, she's small and soft)


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